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JOHN R. THOMPSON, 
VIRGINIA, 

JAMES WOOD DAVIDSON, A.M., 

SOUTH CAROLINA, 

HON. W. G. M c ADO, 

GEORGIA, 

CHARLES DIMITRY, 

LOUISIANA, 

A Quartette of Southern Authors tuho have ever kindly encouraged 

and judiciously advised the "Female Writers of the 

South:" Tliis Record of them i» 



jjesjKctfulh) l]ecHe;ited. 




%'- 







THE 



LIVING FEMALE WRITERS 



OF THE 



SOUTH 




7^ 



THE 



LIVING FEMALE WRITERS 



OF THE 



SOUTH. 



EDITED BY THE AUTHOR OF 

SOUTHLAND WRITERS. 



"Quos fama obscura recondit." 

^xeid v. 302. 




PHILADELPHIA: 
CLAXTON, KEMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 

819 & 821 MARKET STREET. 
1872. 






^5 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 

STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN & SON, PHILADELPHIA. 



PRINTED BY MOORE BROTHERS, 

Franklin Buildings, Sixth St., below Arch, 

Philadelphia. 




CONTENTS. 



INTRODUCTORY. 



PAGE 
1 



KENTUCKY. 

MRS. CATHARINE A. WARFIELD. S. A. D 17 

MISS ELIZA A. DUPUY. & A. D 28 

Daguerreotype from a Dead Man's Eye. N. Y. Ledger:. 31 

ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY 33 

Extract. — Florence Vale. A Poem 38 

AGNES LEONARD 39 

Fra Diavolo. Poem 43 

Angel of Sleep. Poem 44 

SARAH M. B. PIATT 46 

Proem : To the World. A Woman's Poems 47 

My Wedding-Ring. Poem. Nests at Washington, and Other Poems. . . 48 

The Fancy Ball. Galaxy Magazine 48 

NELLY MARSHALL. Charles Dimitry 49 

Questions. Poem 50 

Alder-Boughs. Poem 51 

A Woman's Heart.., 52 

FLORENCE ANDERSON 53 

Florence Anderson, the Poet. Poem, by Mary R. T. McAboy. . . 54 

The World of the Ideal. Poem 54 

MRS. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND DAUGHTERS. Eliza Lee 50 

vii 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

MRS. ROCHESTER FORD 57 

Aunt Peggy's Death-Bed. Grace Truman 58 

MRS. MARIE T. DAVIESS 62 

Harvest Hymn. Poem Q5 

Value of Permanence in Home and Vocation. Extract 66 

VIRGINIA PENNY 67 

SALLIE J. H. BATTEY 68 

Dreams. Poem. Southern Magazine 69 



ALICE McCLURE GRIFFIN 70 

Spirit Landscapes. Poem 70 

M. W. MERIWETHER BELL 71 

The Valley Lily's Message. Poem 72 



LOUISIANA. 

SARAH A. DORSEY 74 

A Texan Prairie. Recollections of Allen.... 78 

Agnes Graham, Reviews of. N. Y. Round Table 79 

Refugeeing. Lucia Dare 80 

Governor Allen. Recollections of Allen 81 

The Lauries at Home. Lucia Dare . 81 

MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. M. F. Bigney 85 

Pleasant Hill. Poem 87 

The Legend of Don Roderick. Editor N. 0. Times 89 

TkteEnchanted Tower of Toledo. Poem. N. 0. Sunday Times. . . 91 

./The Last Wild Flower. N. 0. Sunday Times 95 

ANNA PEYRE DINNIES 98 

The Wife. Poem 100 

The Love-Letter. Poem 103 

The Blush. Poem 104 

JULIA PLEASANTS CRESWELL 105 

The Minstrel Pilot. Poem 108 

M. SOPHIE HOMES 110 

The Dream-Angel. Scott' 's Magazine 116 

ELIZA LOFTON PUGH. Margaret C. Pig got 118 

St. Philip's 120 



CONTENTS. IX 

PAGE 

ELIZA ELLIOTT HAEPEE 121 

I'll Come in Bright Dreams. Poem 122 

MAEY WALSINGHAM CEEAN 123 

Santa Claus. Poem 124 

Broxze Johx and his Saffrox Steed. Poem 125 

MES. JOSEPHINE E. HOSKINS 127 

SUSAN BLANCHAED ELDEE. A.P.I) 128 

Cleopatra Dyixg. Poem 130 

MES. M. B. HAY 132 

Aspasia. Sonnet. Crescent Monthly 132 

GEETEUDE A. CANFIELD. 31. B. Williams 133 

Ix the Trexches 134 

ELLEN A. MOEIAETY 136 

Ax Old Story. Poem 137 

MES. E. M. KEPLINGEE 138 

Oyer theEiyer. Poem 139 

MES. LOUISE CLACK. G. Augusta Canfield 141 

Grandmother's Faded Flower. Poem 143 

MAEY ASHLY TOWNSEND 144 

Ebb axd Flow. "Xariffa's" Poems 146 

Creed. "Xariffa's" Poems 146 

MES. FLOEENCE J. WILLAED 148 

Eip Tax Winkle. Poem 149 

JEANNETTE E. HADEEMANN 150 

CATHAEINE F. WINDLE 151 

Why do I Loye Him? Poem 152 

No yels axd Novelists. Extract. N. O.Sunday Times 152 

MES. A. M. G MASSENA 154 

MAEY TEEESA MALONY 154 

Dead lx the Steerage. Poem 155 

A Home of Laxg Syxe. Poem 156 

A CRESCENT CITY COTEEIE, yiz. : 157 

Matilda A. Bailey 157 

Florexce Burckett 158 

Mary Cresap 158 

Alice Dalsheimer 158 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Mary Green Goodale 159 

Sarah C. Yeiser 161 

Samuella Cowen 161 



GEOEGIA. 

MARY E. TUCKER. Autobiography 163 

Hugging the Shore. Poem 170 

Kindness. Poem 170 

MARGIE P. SWAIN. W. G. Mb Ado ,, 170 

Vanitas. Poem 172 

The Last Scene. Poem . 173 

The Sentinel of Pompeii. Poem 174 

KATE A. DUBOSE 175 

LOULA KENDALL ROGERS 177 

The Healing Fountain. Poem 179 

EMMA MOFFETT WYNNE 180 

Life's Mission. Cragfont 181 

ANNIE R. BLOUNT 183 

Under the Lamplight. Prize Poem 185 

MARIA J. WESTMORELAND 188 

The Unattainable. Scott? s Magazine 189 

Talking. Scott 1 8 Magazine 191 

MARIA LOU EVE 193 

Sincerity in Talking. Extract. Prize Essay 1 93 

KATE C. WAKELEE f. 194 

To the Memory of Captain Herndon. Poem. Oodey's Lady's 
Book 195 

CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR 196 

"Unknown." Poem 198 

MRS. BETTLE M. ZIMMERMAN 200 

Christmas Tears. Poem 200 

SALLIE M. MARTIN 202 

Charlotte Corday. Women of France 203 

CLARA LECLERC 204 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAGE 

MRS. BESSIE W. WILLIAMS 205 

After the Battle. Ciaromski and his Daughter 205 

LOUISE MANHIEM, (Mrs. Herbert.) R. J. 207 

On Dress. Southern Illustrated News 208 

MRS. REBECCA JACOBUS 211 

MRS. MARY A. McCRIMMON 212 

Florida. Poem. Literary Crusader 213 

MRS. AGNES JEAN STIBBES 214 

Rev. A. J. Ryan, the Golden-Tongued Orator 214 

MISS FANNY ANDREWS 216 

A Plea for Red Hair. Godey's Lady's Book 218 

Paper-Collar Gentility 221 

maria j. Mcintosh 223 

KATE CLIFFORD KENAN 229 

The Doctor. "Violetta and I." 230 

MARY LOUISE COOK. Emma Moffett 232 

CORNELIA BORDERS. "H." 233 

MRS. EPPIE B. CASTLEN. W. G. McAdo 234 

Autumn Days. " Chiquita V Poems 235 

MRS. A. P. HILL. Mrs. Colquitt 236 

MRS. MARY F. McADO 237 

Oneiropion. Poem 238 

THEODOSIA FORD 239 

JANIE OLLIVAR 240 

Morning Dreams. Poem. Southern Field and Fireside 240 

JULIA BACON 240 

Will's a Widower 241 

E. W. BACCHUS 242 

Charles Dickens. Poem. Baltimore Home Journal 242 



XII CONTENTS. 



ALABAMA. 



PAGE 

MADAME ADELAIDE DE V. CHAUDRON 244 

MISS KATE CUMMING 245 

MRS. ANNIE CREIGHT LLOYD 247 

MRS. E. W. BELLAMY 248 

Four Oaks. Reviews. W.T.Walthall 248 

A Summer Idyl. Poem. Land We Love 251 

Transition. Poem. Land We Love 253 

MARY A. CRUSE 255 

Waking of the Blind Girl by the Tones of the Grand Organ. 

"Cameron Hall." 257 

LILIAN ROZELL MESSENGER 261 

The Old Wharf at Pine Bluff. Poem. A 7 ". Y. Home Journal 262 

SARAH E. PECK 264 

JULIA L. KEYES. G. P. K. 265 

To my Absent Husband. Poem 266 

A Dream of Locust Dell. Poem. Southern Field and Fireside 268 

AUGUSTA J. EVANS 270 

Macaria, Review of. James R. Randall - 273 

St. Elmo, Review of. Jerome Cochran, M.D 276 

I. M. PORTER HENRY 281 

Rimmer. Poem. Land We Love 282 

CATHERINE W. TOWLES , 283 

MRS. JULIA SHELTON, (Laura Lorrimer.)..".. : 285 

The Fever-Sleep. A Prize Poem. Southern Field and Fireside 285 

MRS. OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 291 

MARY WARE. S. E. Peek 292 

Consolation. Poem. Home Monthly, [Nashville.) 293 

MRS. E. L. SAXON 294 

My Vine. Poem. N. 0. Sunday Times 295 

S. S. CRUTE 296 

ANNA FREDAIR 296 

CAROLINE THERESA BRANCH. Rev. Dr. Myers 296 

BETTIE KEYES HUNTER 297 

A Mother's Wish. Poem. Baltimore Home Journal. 297 



CONTENTS. X11I 



MISSISSIPPI. 

PAGB 

SALLIE A. VANCE. M. E. B 299 

The Two Angels. Poem 300 

Guard Thine Action. Poem 301 

MRS. MARY STANFORD 303 

My New- Year's Prayer. Poem. Southern Monthly, [Memphis.).... 305 

MRS. S. B. COX 307 

Spirit- Whisperings. N. O. Sunday Times 309 

ELIZA J. POITEVENT 311 

A Chirp from Mother Robin. Poem. N. O. Picayune 313 

The Royal Cavalcade. Poem 314 

MARY W. LOUGHBOROUGH 315 



FLOEIDA. 

MARY E. BRYAN 316 

Anacreon. Poem 321 

Miserere. Poem 326 

By the Sea. Poem. Mobile Sunday Times 329 

The Fatal Bracelet 331 

How should Women Write ? Southern Field and Fireside 335 

FANNY E. HERRON 340 

The Siege of Murany. Extract. Mobile Sunday Times 340 

MRS. M. LOUISE CROSSLEY 342 

AUGUSTA DE MILLY 343 

"Implora Pace." Poem , 344 

"Florida Capta." Poem 345 



TENNESSEE. 

MRS. L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 347 

"Mammy:" A Home Picture of 1860. Land We Love 352 

The Broken Sentence. A Tribute to the late Lieut. Herndon 354 



XIV CONTENTS. 



PAGE 



MRS. ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. Mary J. S. Upshur 357 

A Mother's Prayer. Poem. N. Y. Churchman 358 

Eequiem. Poem 360 

Under the Leaves. "Lotus." 362 

MRS. CLARA COLES 364 

Sabbath Morn. "Clara's" Poems 365 

ADELIA C. GRAVES 366 

Human Sovereignty ; or, Every Man a King. Poem. Scott's 

Magazine 369 

MRS. MARY E. POPE , 371 

The Gift of Song 372 

MARTHA W. BROWN 374 

" Thotj art Growing Old, Mother." Poem 374 

AMANDA M. BRIGHT 376 

ANNIE E. LAW. W. G. McAdo 377 

Memories. Poem 377 



VIRGINIA. 

MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON 379 

Old Songs and New, Review of. London Saturday Review 379 

Beechenbrook, Review of. N. Y. Bound Table 380 

Beechenbrook, Review of. Field and Fireside 382 

Mrs. Preston's Poetry, Review of. Wm. Hand Browne 385 

Non Dolet. Sonnet. Old 1 Songs and New 386 

Undertow. Sonnet. Old Songs and New 387 

Acceptation. Poem. Beechenbrook 387 

The Lady Hildegarde's Wedding. Old Songs and New 388 

MRS. S. A. WEISS. Charles Dimitry 391 

The Battle Eve. Poem. Southern Literary Messenger 393 

Con Elgin. Poem. Susan Archer Tally's Poems 394 

MRS. CONSTANCE CARY HARRISON. Charles Dimitry 398 

MISS M. J. HAW '. 399 

MRS. MARY WILEY 400 

A Bunch of Flowers. Poem. Southern Literary Messenger 400 



CONTENTS. XV 

PAGE 

MISS M. E. HEATH 401 

VIRGINIA E. DAVIDSON 402 

MES. J. W. McGUIEE 403 

MISS SALLIE A. BEOCK 404 

What is Life? Poem. Metropolitan Bend 407 

MISS SUSAN C. HOOPEE 409 

The Occupation of Eichmond 411 

MATILDA S. EDWAEDS 414 

MES. MAEY McCABE 415 

IISS MAEY J. S. UPSHTJE ., 416 

Margaret. Poem. Southern Literary Messenger 418 

MISSSAEAH J. C.WHITTLESEY 420 

HELEN G. BEALE 421 

MES. COENELIA J. M. JOEDAN. Charles Dimitry 423 

Fall Softly, Winter Snow, To-Night. Poem 426 

Flowers for a Wounded Soldier. Poem. Magnolia Weekly 427 

LAUEA E. FEWELL 428 

A Virginia Village — 1861. Scoffs Magazine 428 

LIZZIE PETIT CUTLEE 430 

Spirit-Mates. Household Mysteries 431 

MAEY E. WOODSON 433 

M. VIEGINIA TEEHUNE, (Marian Harland.) 433 

MES. WM. C. EIVES. & D 436 

MAEY TUCKEE MAGILL 438 

MISS EMILY V.MASON 439 

MAEY EUGENIE McKINNE. A. W. H. 440 



NOETH CAEOLINA. 

MAEY BAYAED CLAEKE. Judge Edwin G. Reade 442 

Aphrodite. Poem. Mosses from a Rolling Stone 449 

Grief. Poem. Land We Love 451 

Life's Fig-Leaves. Poem. Land We Love 433 



XVI CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

MBS. MARY MASON 454 

CORNELIA PHILLIPS SPENCER 454 

FANNY MURDAUGH DOWNING. H. W. Busted 455 

Sunset Musings. Poem 456 

VIRGINIA DURANT COVINGTON 458 

MARY AYER MILLER. Mary B. Clarke 459 

MRS. SARAH A.ELLIOTT 460 

FRANCES C. FISHER , 461 

Valerie Aylmer, Review of. T. Cooper De Leon 461 



SOUTH CAEOLINA. 

SUE PETIGRU KING 463 

A Lover's Quarrel. Sylvia's World 464 

CAROLINE GILMAN 468 

CAROLINE H. JERVEY. Jeanie A. Dickson 469 

Julia Sleeping. Poem 470 

A Summer Memory 472 

CAROLINE A. BALL 473 

The Jacket of Gray. Poem 473 

MARY S. B. SHINDLER 475 

JULIA C. R. DORR 477 

ESSIE B. CHEESBOROUGH 478 

Renunciation. Poem. Crescent Monthly 478 

MISS ALICE F. SIMONS.. 479 

MARY SCRIMZEOUR WHITAKER V 480 

The Summer Retreat of a Southern Planter 482 

FANNY M. P. DEAS 484 

MARGARET MAXWELL MARTIN 485 

My Saviour, Thee ! Poem 487 

MRS. M. A. EWART RIPLEY... 488 

MRS. CATHARINE LADD 489 



CONTENTS. XVU 

PAGE 

CLAEA V. DAEGAN 491 

Jean to Jamie. Poem 493 

Sleeping. Poem. Southern Field and Fireside 495 

Flirting with Philip. Philip: My Son 495 

MAEIAN C. LEGAEE EEEVES 498 

Ingemisco, Eeview of. C. W. Hutson 498 

Eandolph Honor, Eeview of. Bound Table 500 

FLOEIDE CLEMSON 502 

ANNIE M. BAENWELL 503 

On Southern Literature. Scott's Magazine 504 

MAEY CAEOLINE GEISWOLD 505 

The White Camelia. Poem 505 

MISS JULIA C. MINTZING. Charles Dimitry 506 

Victor and Victim. Poem 507 

Gozthe and Schiller. Land We Love 508 

JEANIE A. DICKSON f . 512 

MES. LAUEA GWYN. Ex-Governor B. F. Perry 5J3 

My Palace of Dreams. Poem 513 

MISS CATHAEINE GENDEON POYAS 515 

Sonnet. Year of Grief , and Other Poems 516 

SELINA E. MEANS 517 

LOUISA S. McCOED 518 

MES. MAEY C. EION 518 



MAKYLAND. 

ANNE MONCUEE CEANE 519 

Emily Chester, Eeview of. E. P. Whipple 519 

Emily Chester, Eeview of. Geo. H. Milliard 520 

Emily Chester, Eeview of. Gail Hamilton 521 

Opportunity, Eeview of. Paul H. Hayne 523 

Words to a "Lied ohne Worte." Poem 526 

Winter Wind. Poem. Galaxy Monthly 527 

Faith and Hope. Opportunity 527 

LYDIA CEANE 529 

Korner's Battle Prayer 529 

c 



XVlli CONTENTS.- 

PAGH 

ELLIE LEE HARDENBROOK 530 

GEORGIE A. HULSE McLEOD 531 

Mine ! Thine and Mine ; or, The Stepmother's Revenge 532 

The Lost Treasure. Poem 532 

EMMA ALICE BROWNE 533 

ESTELLA ANNA LEWIS 534 

The Forsaken. Poem. Records of the Heart 535 

The Grief of Aialetts. Poem. Sappho. — Act II. 538 

HENRIETTA LEE PALMER , 539 

The Stratford Gallery, Review of. Atlantic Monthly 540 

MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH 541 

MISS ELIZA SPENCER 542 

A Maryland Farm-House. Mary Ashburton 542 

TAMAR A. KERMODE 543 

Giye Us this Peace. Poem 543 

ELEANOR FULLERTON 544 

So Long Ago. Poem 544 



TEXAS. 

FANNY A. D. DARDEN 546 

The Old Brigade. Poem 546 

Checkmate. Poem 548 

MRS. S. E. MAYNARD 549 

Cleopatra to Marc Antony. Poem. Crescent Monthly 550 

MAUD J. YOUNG 551 

MOLLIE E. MOORE. Colonel C. G. Forshey 555 

The River San Marcos. Poem......... 556 

Stealing Roses through the Gate. Poem 560 

Minding the Gap. Poem 561 

FLORENCE D. WEST 565 

The Marble Lily. Poem. Land We Love 565 




ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



ABORIGINAL Portfolio, 9. 
Acceptation, (Poem,) 387. 
Adrienne, 410. 
Adhemar, 536. 
After the Battle, 205. 
Agnes Graham, (Review of,) 79. 
Albert Hastings, 480. 
Alder-Boughs, (Poem,) 51. 
Alpurente, Dr. F. R., 157. 
Alfriend, F. H., 8. 
Altorf, 12. 
Alone, 434. 
Alida, 489. 
Allen, Governor, 81. 
Alston, Edith, 159. 
Alston, Washington, 479. 
"American Pulpit," Sprague's, 151. 
American Courier, 294. 
American Poets and their Favorite Poems, 

406. 
Alma Grev, 369. 
Allworth Abbey, 541. 
Amaranth, The Southern, 406. 
Anacreon, (Poem,) 324. 
Ann Atom, 150. 
Anderson, Florence, 53. 
Anderson, Florence, the Poet, (Poem,) 54. 
Anderson, Dr. Leroy H., 503. 
Andrews, Fanny, 216. 
Ancient Lady, 515. 
Angel of Sleep, (Poem,) 44. 
Angoisse, 26. 
Answered, (Poem,) 159. 
Ante-Bellum, 232. 
Antethusia, 237. 
Arnold, Matthew, 152. 
Appleton's Journal, 461. 
Arria, 119. 
Arcturus, 489. 

Army Argus and Crisis, 247. 
Ashhurst, Lady of, 30. 
Ashleigh, 30. 
As By Fire, 50. 



Aspasia, (Sonnet,) 132. 
Ashmead, Rev. Wm., 151. 
Ashes of Roses, 410. 
At Last, 435. 
Atlantic Monthly, 540. 
Aunt Abby the Irrepressible, 448. 
Autobiography of an Actress, 9. 
Aunt Charitv, 161. 
Aunt Kitty, 224. 
Aunt Phillis's Cabin, 9. 
Aunt Peggy's Death-bed, 58. 
Autumn Dreams, 235. 
Autumn Days, (Poem,) 235. 
Auchester, Charles, 492. 
Ayer, General Henry, 459. 
Azile, 4. 
Azelee, 161. 

BACON, Julia, 240. 
Bacchus, E. W., 242. 
Baden, Frances Henshaw, 541. 
Bagby, G. W., 8. 
Bailey, Matilda A., 157. 
Baker, Gen. Mosely, 546. 
Ball, Fancv, (Poem,) 48. 
Ball, Caroline A., 473. 
Ball, Isaac, 473. 
Ballard, J. J., 549. 
Banner of the South, 214. 
Baring, Mrs. Charles, 12. 
Barber, Miss C. W., 184, 283. 
Barnwell, Annie M., 503. 
Barnwell, Thomas Osborn, 503. 
Bartow, Gen. Francis S., 239. 
Battle Eve, The, (Poem,) 393. 
Battle of Manassas, 447. 
Battcy, Sallie J. H., 68. 
Battey, Manfred C, 68. 
Beale, Helen G., 421. 
Beale, Wm. C, 421. 
Beauseincourt, 25. 
Bell, M. W. Meriwether, 71. 
Bell, Captain Darwin, 72. 



XX 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Bellamy, Mrs. E. W., 248. 

Beech enbrook : A Rhyme of the War, 

380-382. 
Beechwood Tragedy, The, 399. 
Benny, 359. 

Bennett, Martha Haines Butt, 10. 
Bertha the Beauty, 420. 
Bessie Melville, 256. 
Betts, Mary Wilson, 4. 
Betts, Morgan L., 4. 
Beulah, 271. 
Beverley, 309. 
Beverley, Jr., 309. 
Beverly, Elise, 542. 
Bigby, Mary Catharine, 6. 
Bigney, Mark F., 4, 148. 
Bibb, Thomas, 106. 
Blake, Mrs. Daniel, 13. 
Blackwell, Rev. John C, 414. 
Blanchard, General A. G., 128. 
Blind Alice, 225. 
Blount, Annie R., 183. 
Bloody Footprints, 403. 
Borders, Cornelia, 233. 
Bowdre, Judge P. E., 234. 
Branch, Caroline Theresa, 296. 
Branch, Rev. James O., 297. 
Brace, Ned, 241. 
Bradley, Thomas Bibb, 107. 
Brenan, Joseph, 123. 
Brewer, Sarah, 5. 
Bridal Eve, 541. 
Bride's Fate, 541. 
Bride of Llewellyn, 541. 
Brigand's Bride, 138. 
Bright Memories, 531. 
Bright, Amanda M., 376. 
Brockenborough, Judge, 403. 
Brock, Miss Sallie A., 404. 
Broken Sentence, The, 354. 
Brother Clerks, The, 145. 
Bronze John and his Saffron Steed,(Poem,) 

125. 
Browne, Wm. Hand, 312, 385. 
Browne, Emma Alice, 533. 
Brown, Martha W., 374. 
Brown, R. B., 374. 
Burckett, Florence, 158. 
Bryan, Mary E., 316. 
Bryan, Madeline T., 189. 
Bunch of Flowers, A, (Poem,) 400. 
Bug Oracle, The, 420. 
Burwell, W. M., 5. 
Burke, T. A., 183. 

Buds from the Wreath of Memory, 296. 
Busy Moments of an Idle Woman, 463. 
" Byrd Lyttle," 14. 
By the Sea, (Poem,) 329. 

CAIUS Gracchus, 518. 
Callirhoe, 5. 
Callamura, 108. 
Calhoun, John C, 502. 



Caldwell, Howard H., 491. 

Cameron Hall, 256. 

Canfield, Gertrude, A., 133. 

Caruthers, Wm. A., 8. 

Carra, Emma, 214. 

Castlen, Eppie Bowdre, 234. 

Castlen, Dr. F. G., 234. 

Carrie, 505. 

Carrie Harrington ; or, Scenes in New Or- 
leans, 111. 

Carnes, Rev. J. E., 553. 

Cary, Constance, 398. 

Cary, Archibald, 398.. 

Casper, 458. 

Cave Life in Vicksburg, My, 315. 

Celeste ; or, The Pirate's Daughter, 30. 

Charleston Daily News, 473. 

Charlotte Corday, 203. 

Charms and Counter-Charms, 225, 227. 

Charles Morton ; or, The Young Patriot, 
477. 

Charity, Aunt, 161. 

Ciaromski and his Daughter, 205. 

Chaudron, Madame Adelaide De V., 244. 

Cheesborough, Miss Essie B., 478. 

Cheesborough, John W., 478. 

Checkmate, (Poem,) 548. 

Chesney, Esther, 491. 

Cheves, Langdon, 518. 

Chester, Emily, (Reviews of,) 519-521. 

Chirp from Mother Robin, A, (Poem,) 313. 

Chiquita, 235. 

Chicora, 9. 

Changed Brides, 541. 

Christmas Guest, 542. 

Christmas Tears, (Poem,) 200. 

Christmas Holly, 435. 

Child of the Sea, 536. 

Citizen : Miles O'Reilly, 168. 

Clack, Mrs. Louise, 141. 

Clara, 196. 

Clara's Poems, 364. 

Claiborne, Ferdinand, 303. 

Claudia, 491. 

Clarke, Mary Bayard, 442, 460. 

Clarke, Colonel Wm. J., 442. 

Cleopatra to Marc Antony, (Poem,) 550. 

Cleopatra Dying, (Poem,) 130. 

Clemson, Floride, 502. 

Clvtie and Zenobia; or, The Lily and the 
Palm, 449. 

Coleman, Mrs. Chapman, 56. 

Coleman, Eugenia, 56. 

Coleman, Judith, 56. 

Coleman, Sallie, 56. 

Coles, Mrs. Clara, 364. 

Colquitt, Mrs., 237. 

Cochran, Dr. Jerome, 272, 276. 

Come to Life, 492. 

Coming Home, 492. 

Common Sense in the Household, 435. 

Coquette's Punishment, 30. 

Cotting, Doctor, 165. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



XXI 



Constantine, 171. 

Constance, 205. 

Concealed Treasure, 30. 

Conspirator^ The, 29. 

Conquest and Self-Conquest, 225. 226. 

Confederate Dead, 242. 

Cook, Mary Louise, 232. 

Cocke, William Archer, 415. 

Consolation, (Poem,) 293. 

Con Elgin, (Poem,) 394. 

" Confederate Notes," 417. 

Cordova, 553. 

Correspondence of Mr. Ealph Izard, 12. 

Corinth, and other Poems, 425. 

Cousin Kate, 229. 

Cousin, Victor, 152. 

Cousins, The, 225. 

Courtland, Miss, 415. 

Covington, Virginia Durant, 458. 

Cox, Mrs. S. B., 307. 

Cragfont, 180. 

Crane, Anne Moncure, 519. 

Crane, Lydia, 529. 

Crane; Wm., 529. • 

Country Neighborhood, 29. 

Courier, Louisville, 39. 

Cowden, Mrs. V. GK, 7. 

Cowen, Samuella, 161. 

Creed, (Poem,) 146. 

Creole, 154. 

Creola, 161. 

Crescent Monthly, 132, 246, 550. 

Crescent, New Orleans, 309. 

Creswell, Julia Pleasants, 105. 

Creswell, Judge David, 107. 

Crescent City Coterie, A, 157. 

Cresap, Mary, 158. 

Crean, Mary Walsingham, 123. 

Creight, Annie P., 247. 

Cruel as the Grave, 542. 

Crittenden, Life and Times of J. J., 57. 

Crimes that the Law does not Reach, 463. 

Crossbone Papers, 144. 

Cross, Jane Tandy Chinn, 3. 

Crown Jewels, The, 182. 

Crossley, Mrs. M. Louise, 342. 

Crossley, J. T., 343. 

Cruse, Mary A., 255. 

Cruse, Sam, 255. 

Cruse, Wm., 255. 

Crute, S. S., 296. 

Cumrning, Miss Kate, 245. 

Curse of Clifton, 541. 

dishing, E. H., 559. 

Cutler, Mrs. Lizzie Petit, 430. 

DALE, Salvia, 158. 
Dalsheimer, Alice, 158. 
Daguerreotype from a Dead Man's Eye, 

31. 
Daisy Dare, and Baby Power, 37. 
Dacotah ; or, Legends of the Sioux, 8. 
Dana, Charles E., 475. 



Darden, Fanny A. D., 546. 

Daughter, The Planter's, 30. 

Darlington Southerner, 492. 

Dargan, Clara V., 491. 

Dargan, Dr. K. S., 491. 

Davis, I. N., 284. 

Davidson, Virginia E., 402. 

Davidson, J. W., 493. 

Daviess, Marie T., 62. 

Daviess, Captain Samuel, 63. 

Daviess, Jos. Hamilton, 63. 

Dawson, Rev. John E., 236. 

Day-Spring, 486. 

Devereux, Thomas P., 442. 

Dead Heart, 30. 

Dead in the Steerage, (Poem,) 155. 

Deas, Mrs. Anna Izard, 12. 

Deas, Fanny M. P., 484. 

Deems, R-ev. Dr., 454. 

Deeds, The Lost, 30. 

De Milly, Augusta, 343. 

Deen, Ethel, 343. 

De Leon, T. C, 461. 

Destiny, 479. 

De Vere, Lalla, 202. 

Deserted Wife, The, 541. 

Diary of a Southern Refugee during the 
War, 403. 

Dictionary of Similes, Figures, Images, 
Metaphors, etc., 264. 

Dickens, Charles, (Poem,) 242. 

Dickson, Jeanie A., 512. 

Dickson, Dr. Samuel Henrv, 512. 

Dimitry, Charles, 393, 398/426, 512. 

Dimitry, Alexander, 5. 

Dixie, (Poem,) 457. 

Divorce, The, 30. 

Dinnies, Anna Peyre, 98. 

Dispatch, Richmond, 433. 

Discarded Daughter, 541. 

Doctor, The, 230. 

Dorsey, Sarah A., 74. 

Dorsey, Anna H., 14. 

Downing, Fanny Murdaugh, 455. 

Downing, Charles \W., 455. 

Dorr, Julia C. R., 477. 

Dorr, Seneca M., 477. 

Dorr, Zulma, 477. 

Dreams, (Poem,) 69. 

Dreams, My, 518. 

Dream of Locust Dell, (Poem,) 268. 

Dress under Difficulties, 217. 

Duncan Adair; or, Captured in Escap- 
ing, 4. 

Du Bose, Kate A., 175. 

Du Bose, Charles W., 175. 

Du Ponte, Mrs. Sophie A., 5. 

Du Ponte, Durant, 5. 

Dupuy, Eliza A., 28. 

EARLS of Sutherland, 214. 
Ebb and Flow, (Poem,) 146. 
Eastman, Mrs. Mary II., 8. 



XX11 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Edwards, Major John D., 31". 

Edwards, Matilda S., 414. 

Edwards, Rev. A. S., 414. 

Edwards, General S. M., 414. 

Edgar, Rev. John T., 365. 

Edgefield Advertiser, 492. 

Edenton Sentinel. 420. 

Ellis, Colonel John, 18. 

Ellis, Thomas G., 29. 

Ellett, Mrs. E. F., 486. 

Eliot, George, 22. 

Elder, Susan Blanchard, 128. 

Elder, Charles D., 129. 

Ellen Leslie, 225. 

Ellen; or, The Fanatic's Daughter, 7. 

Ellen Fitzgerald, 129. 

Elzey Hav, 216. 

Elliott, Mrs. Sarah A., 460. 

Elliott's Housewife, Mrs., 460. 

Ellen Campbell ; or, King's Mountain, 488. 

Elma South, 478. 

Empty Heart, The, 435. 

Emerson, 152. 

Emma Carra, 214. 

Emma Walton, 30. 

Emily Herbert, 225. 

Employments of Women, 67. 

Enchanted Tower of Toledo, (Poem,) 91. 

Eolarid, 401. 

" Estelle," 374. 

Error, Fatal, 30. 

Etna Yandemir, 68. 

Evans, Augusta J., 270. 

Evans, Mrs. E. H., 10. 

Evans, Miss Mary, 400. 

Evans, Dr. M. H., 400. 

Eve, Maria Lou, 193. 

Evening Star, The, (Poem,) 185. 

Evenings at Donaldson Manor, 225. 

Evangeline, 137. 

Evening Post, New York, 462. 

Evil Genius, The, 30. 

Evelyn, Wm. M., 492. 

Ewart, James B., 488. 

Exhortation to the Inhabitants of the Prov- 
ince of South Carolina, 11. 

Extracts from " Florence Yale," (Poem,) 
38. 

Exiles, Huguenot, 30. 

Eyrich, A., 148. 

FADETTE, 502. 
Fancy Ball, The, (Poem,) 48. 
Faith and Hope, 527. 
Fairfax, Ruth, 214. 
Fairfax, Monimia, 398. 
Fairfax, Thomas, 398. 
Fair Play, 542. 
Fall Softly , Winter Sno w,To-night, ( Poem, ) 

426. 
Familv Secret, 30. 
Fatal Error, 30. 
Family Doom, 541, 542. 



Fallen Pride, 541. 

Fashionable Life, 9. 

Fatal Bracelet, The, 331. 

Fatal Marriage, The, 541. 

Fielding, Fannv, 416. 

Fewell, Laura R., 428. 

Fever-Sleep, The, (Poem,) 285. 

Filia Ecclesia?, 76. 

First Love, (Poem,) 162. 

Fisher, Frances C, 461. 

Fisher, Colonel Charles F., 461. 

Finley, Miss Julia, 285. 

Five "Hundred Employments adapted to 

Women, 67. 
Flirting with Philip, 495. 
"FlorenceYale," Extracts from,(Poem,)38. 
Flori, C. de, 502. 
Florence Anderson, the Poet, 54. 
Floral Year, The, 99. 
Floral Wreath, 489. 
Florida, (Poem,) 213. 
Florida Capta, (Poem,) 345. 
Florida, 457. 
Florence Arnott, 225. 
Floyd, General John, 237. 
Floyd, Mary Faith, 237. 
Florine de Genlis, 416. 
Flowers of Hope and Memory, 424. 
Flowers and Fruit, 486. 
Flowers for a Wounded Soldier, (Poem,) 

427. 
Ford, S. Rochester, 57. 
Ford, Theodosia, 239. 
Forever Thine, 491. 
Fortune Seeker, 541. 
Foote, Maiy E., 371. 
Forgiven at Last, 150. 
Forrester, Dr. Alexander, 151. 
Forlorn Hope, 157. 
Forest City Bride, The, 194. 
Fortune's Wheel ; or, Life's Vicissitudes, 

234. 
Forrest, Life of General Bedford, 371. 
Forecastle Tom, 477. 
Forsaken, The, (Poem,) 535. 
Forshev, Colonel C. G., 565. 
Four Oaks, (Reviews of,) 248. 
Fra Diavolo, (Poem,) 43. 
Frazer, Martha W., 374. 
Fredair, Anna, 296. 
French, L. Virginia, 316, 347. 
Furman, Prof. Samuel, 480. 
Furman, Richard, 480. 
Fullerton, Eleanor, 544. 
Fuller, Violet, 544. 

n ALLAWAY, Colonel M. C, 261. 

IT Galaxv, The, 436. 

Gan Eden, 446. 

Gardner, Colonel James, 322. 

Garnet; or, Through the Shadows into 

Light, 247. 
Georgia Gazette, 196. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



XX111 



George Balcombe, 43S. 

Gerald Gray's Wife, 463. 

Gertrude Glenn, 292. 

Gipsy's Prophecy, The, 541. 

Gibbs, Dr. P. W., 294. 

Giddings, Joshua P., 366. 

Gift of Song, The, (Poem,) 372. 

Gilman, Caroline, 468. 

Gilman, Pev. Samuel, 468. 

Gift-Book, Mrs. Gilman's, 468. 

Give us this Peace, (Poem,) 543. 

Gleanings from Fireside Fancies, 50. 

Glenmore, Addie, 70. 

Glenelglen, 340. 

Glover, Wilson, 469. 

Goodale, Mary Green, 159. 

Goetzel, S. H., 7, 245. 

Goethe and Schiller, 508. 

Grace Truman; or, Love and Principle, 

57. 
Gray, Amy, 14. 

Grandmother's Faded Flower, (Poem,)143. 
Grace and Clara, 225. 
Graves, Adelia C, 366. 
Graves, Z. C, 367. 
Grief of Alcseus, (Poem,) 538. 
Griswold, Mary Caroline, 505. 
Griswold, Hon. Whiting, 505. 
Griffin, Alice McClure, 70. 
Griffin, Geo. W., 2, 70. 
Guard Thine Action, (Poem,) 310. 
Guardian, Southern, 491. 
Gwyu, Mrs. Laura, 513. 
Gulf City Home Journal, 247. 

HADERMAXN, Jeannette P., 150. 
Hagar ; or, The Lost Jewel, 247. 
Halleck, Fitz-Greene, 47. 
Hamilton, Gail, 521. 
Hancock, Mrs., 68. 
Hansford, 8, 438. 
Harland, Marian, 433. 
Harper, Eliza Ellis H., 121. 
Harper, Dr. James D., 121. 
Harp, The Southern, 476. 
Harp, The Northern, 476. 
Hart, Prof. John S., 224, 226. 
Harrison, Constance Carv, 398. 
Harrison, Burton N., 398". 
Harvest Hymn, (Poem,) 65. 
Harris, Edmund, 292. 
Hardenbrook, Ellie Lee, 530. 
Haunted Homestead, 541. 
Hawes, Alice, 434. 
Hawes, Samuel P., 433. 
Hawes, M. Virginia, 433. 
Haw, Miss M. J., 399. 
Hay, Mrs. M. B., 132. 
Hay, Rev. A. L., 132. 
Havwood Lodge, 322. 
Hayne, Paul H., 523. 
Heart Historv of a Heartless Woman, 463. 
Heath, Miss M. E., 401. 



Helen Courtenay's Promise, 470. 

Heart Whispers • or, Echoes of Song, 197. 

Heart Drops from Memory's Urn, 420. 

Heart Histories, 157. 

Hemans, Felicia, 154. 

Hentz, Caroline Lee, 6. 

Helemar ; or, The Fall of Montezuma, 537. 

Healing Fountain, The, 179. 

Hester Howard's Temptation, 26. 

Henry, Ina M. Porter, 281. 

Henry, George L., 282. 

Heroism of the Confederacy, 148. 

Hermine, 129. 

Herron, Fanny E., 340. 

Herbert, Mrs., 207. 

Hevdenfeldt, Judge, 211. 

Herbert Hamilton ; or, The Bas Bleu, 420. 

Heriolt, Edwin, 489. 

Hidden Heart, 420. 

Hidden Path, 434. 

Hildegarde, 128. 

Hill, General D. H., 503. 

Hill, Mrs. A. P., 236. 

Hilliard, Hon. Henrv W., 233. 

Hilliard, Hon. Geo. H., 520. 

Hillver, Rev. John F., 549. 

Hili; Judge Edward Y., 236. 

Holmes, Rev. Wm, 202. 

Holcombes, The, 8, 439. 

Holt, Harrv, 204. 

Holt, Polly, 204. 

Home of Lang Syne, A, (Poem,) 156. 

Homes, M. Sophie, 110. 

Homes, Luther, 116. 

Home Monthly, 276, 417. 

Hope, Ethel, 281. 

Home and Abroad, 437. 

Hooper, Miss Susan C, 409. 

Hosmer, Harriet, 454. 

Hospital Life in the Army of the Tennes- 
see, 245. 

Houston Telegraph, 558. 

Household Mvsteries, 430. 

Hougbton, Colonel R. B., 319. 

Household of Bouverie, 22. 

How Women can Make Money, 67. 

How should Women write ? 335. 

Howard, Samuel, 468. 

Howard, Caroline, 469. 

Howard, Helen, 492. 

How He won Her, 541. 

Hulse, Dr. Isaac, 531. 

Huguenot Daughters, 515. 

Hughes, Judge Beverley, 307. 

Hugging the Shore, (Poem,) 170. 

Hull, Angele De V., 7. 

Human Sovereigntv; or, Even* Man a 
King, (Poem,) 369. 

Huguenot Exiles, 30. 

Hume, Mrs. Sophie, 11. 

Hutson, Mrs. Mary, 12. 

Hutson, C. Woodward, 49S, 501. 

Huxlev, Prof., 152. 



XXIV 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Hunter, Mrs. Fanny E., 165. 

Hunter, Judge John, 165. 

Hunter, Bettie Keyes, 297. 

Hunter, A. M., 297. 

Husks, 434. 

Husbands and Homes, 434. 

Husted, H. W., 455. 

Helen Gardner's Wedding-Day, 435. 

IDE Delmar, 478. 
" I '11 come in Bright Dreams," (Poem,) 
122. 
" Implora Pace," (Poem,) 344. 
In a Crucible, 120. 

India; or, The Pearl of Pearl River, 541. 
Indian Chamber, and other Poems, 21. 
India Morgan ; or, The Lost Will, 194. 
Ingemisco, (Review,) 498. 
Inez : A Tale of the Alamo, 271. 
In the Trenches, 134. 
Ivy Leaves from an Old Homestead, 531. 
Iztalilxo, The Lady of Tula, 348. 

JACOBUS, Mrs. Rebecca, 211. 
Jacobus, J. Julien, 211. 
Jacqueline, 128. 
Jacket of Gray, (Poem,) 473. 
Jackson, " Stonewall," 379. 
Jeffrey, Rosa Vertner, 33. 
Jeffrev, Alexander, 34. • 
Jephthah's Daughter, 368. 
Jenkins, D. O, 5. 
Jessie Graham, 225. 
Jean to Jamie, (Poem,) 493. 
Jervey, Caroline Howard, 469. 
Jervey, Louis, 469. 
Jones, Dabney, 204. 
Jones, General Samuel, 498. 
Jordan, Mrs. Cornelia J. M., 423. 
Jordan, Francis H., 424. 
Journal, Louisville, 414. 
Joseph the Second and his Court, 244. 
Jourdan's Cook-Book, Mrs., 188, 
Judith, 294, 492. 
Junkin, Margaret, 379. 
Junkin, Rev. George, 379. 
Julia Sleeping, (Poem,) 470. 

KALOOLAH, 549. 
Kampa Thorpe, 248. 
Kenan, Kate Clifford, 229. 
Kermode, Tamar A., 543. 
Keplinger, Mrs. E. M., 138. 
Keplinger, Samuel, 138. 
Ketchum, Mrs. Annie Chambers, 357. 
Key, Francis Scott, 115. 
Keyes, Julia L., 265. 
Keyes, Colonel Washington, 297. 
Keyes, Joseph M., 297. 
Kimball, Mrs. Leonard, 311. 
Kindness, (Poem,) 170. 
King's Stratagem, The, 538. 
King, W. H. C, 139. 



King, Henry, 463, 
King, Judge Mitchell, 463. 
King, Mrs. Sue Petigru, 463. 
Kitty's Tales, Aunt, 225. 
Knickerbocker Magazine, 463. 
Knights of the Horseshoe, 8. 
Korner's Battle Prayer, (Poem,) 529. 

LA Tenella, 445. 
Lacy, General Edward, Life of, 517. 
Lady of Virginia, A, 403. 
Lady of Ashurst, 30. 
Lady Hildegarde's Wedding, 388. 
Lady of the Isle, 541. 
Ladies' Southern Florist, 518. 
Ladies' Home, 357. 
Ladies' Home Gazette, 202. 
Lady Tartuffe, The, 539. 
Ladd, Mrs. Catharine, 489. 
Lalla De Vere, 202. 
Lamartine, 536. 
Lanman's Adventures in the Wilds of 

America, 106, 255. 
" Land We Love," 281. 
Lansdowne, 421. 
La Roche, Dr. Rene, 19. 
Last Days of the War in North Carolina, 

454. 
Last Scene, The, (Poem,) 173. 
Last Wild Flower, The, 95. 
Latona, 68. 
Latienne, 242. 
Lauries at Home, 81. 
Laura Lorrimer, 285. 
Law, Miss Annie E., 377. 
LeVert, Mrs. Octavia Walton, 178, 291. 
Le Vert, Dr. Henry S., 291. 
Lee, Eliza, 516. 
Lee, Rev. S. M., 414. 
Lee, Robert E., 379. 
Lee, Mary Elizabeth, 13. 
Lee, Eleanor Percy, 7. 
Lee, Edith, 158. 

Lee, General, and Santa Clans, 142. 
Le Clerc, Clara, 204. 
LeClerc, 161. 
Legare, Hugh S., 151. 
Legend of Don Roderick, 89. 
Leila Cameron, 176. 
Leola, 177. 

Legend of Sour Lake, 553. 
Leisure Moments, 10. , 
Letters to Relatives and Friends on the 

Trinity, 476. 
Letters of Eliza Wilkinson, 468. 
Letter addressed to Mrs. Woodhull, A, 297. 
Lennox, Mary, 232. 
Leonard, Agnes, 39. 
Leonard, Dr. O. L., 39. 
Leroy, 503. 
Leverett, 166. 
Lewis, Estella Anna, 534. 
Lewis, S. D., 534. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



XXV 



Little Episcopalian, 256. 

Literary Crusader, 321. 

Literature, Studies in, 70. 

Lily of the Valley ; or, Margie and I, 14. 

LTnconnue, 240, 348. 

Lloyd, Mrs. Annie Creight, 247. 

Lloyd, Wm. E., 247. 

Living Christianity Delineated, 12. 

Locust Dell, 265. 

Lochlin, 171. 

Logan, Mrs. Martha, 12. 

Lola, 182. 

Lofty and the Lowly, 225. 

Lost Heiress, 541. 

Loew's Bridge, A Broadway Idyl, 169. 

Lotus, 357. 

Lost Deeds, The, 30. 

Lost Diamonds, 484. 

Lewis, Colonel John L., 121. 

Life of General Lee for Youth, 440. 

Life and Campaigns of General Lee, 415. 

Life's Mission, 182. 

Life's Curse, 30. 

Life and Writings of Mrs. Jameson, 128. 

Life of M. M. Pomeroy, 169. 

Life's Changes, 294. 

Light and Darkness, 430. 

Linda Lee, 460. 

Lily, 463. 

Little Match-Girl, The, 484. 

Loughborough, Mary W, 315. 

Louisville Journal, 35, 39, 170, 414. 

Lost Treasure, (Poem,) 530. 

Love Letter, The, (Poem,) 103. 

Love's Stratagem, 127. 

Love's Labor Won, 541. 

Lover's Quarrel, A, 464. 

Lucia Dare, 79. 

Lucy Ellice, 137. 

Luola, 459* 

Lyle Annot, 294. 

Lyle Currer, 343. 

MCABOY, Mrs. Mary B. T., 54. 
McAdo, W. G., 170, 377. 
McAdo, Mrs. Mary F., 237. 
McBride, Mrs. Julia, 317. 
McClure, Dr. Virgil, 71. 
McCabe, Mrs. Mary, 415. 
McCabe, James D., Jr., 415. 
McCord, Louisa S., 518. 
McCord, D. J., 518. 
McClanahan, Saml. G., 513. 
McCrimmon, Mrs. Mary A., 212. 
McGuire, Miss J. W., 403. 
McGuire, Rev. John P., 403. 
Mcintosh, Maria J., 223, 229. 
Mcintosh, Major Lachlan, 224. 
Mcintosh, Captain James M., 224. 
McKinne, Mary Eugenie, 440. 
McLeod, Georgie A. Hulse, 531. 
McLeod, Dr. A. W., 531. 
McMahon, Colonel J. H., 374. 
D 



McMahon, Mary Ann, 488. 

McPhail, Bev. G. Wilson, 421. 

Mabbit Thorn, 419. 

Macaria ; or, Altars of Sacrifice, 273. 

Madison, Virginia, 405. 

Madison Family Visitor, 284. 

Magill, Mary Tucker, 438. 

Magnolia Weekly, 343. 

Maiden Widow, 542. 

Malony, Mary Teresa, 154. 

" Mammy : " A Home Picture of 1860, 352. 

Manheim, Louise, 207. 

Mara, 171. 

Marble Lily, The, (Poem,) 565. 

March, Prof. F. A., 422. 

Mardis, Hon. Samuel Wright, 161. 

Margaret, (Poem,) 478. 

Marshall, Annie Mary, 157. 

Marshall, Humphrey, 49. 

Marshall, Nelly, 49. 

Marie's Mistake, 154. 

Maria del Occidente, 3. 

Marguerite ; or, Two Loves, 448. 

Mary Bunyan ; or, The Dreamer's Blind 

Daughter, 58. 
Mary Austin ; or, The New Home, 14. 
Mayfield, Millie, 110. 
Martin, Mrs. Sallie M., 202. 
Martin, George W., 202. 
Martin, Margaret Maxwell, 485. 
Martin, Bev. William, 485. 
Mary Ashburton, 542. 
Maryland Farm-House, 542. 
Mason, Emily V., 439. 
Mason, Mary, 454. 
Massena, Mrs. A. M. C, 154. 
Masonic Signet and Journal, 284. 
Matthews, Cornelia Jane, 423. 
Matthews, Edwin, 423. 
Mayflower, Minnie, 489. 
May Bie, 123. 
Maynard, Mrs. S. E., 549. 
Means, Selina E., 512. 
Means, Dr. T. Sumter, 518. 
Mendelssohn's Songs, 492. 
Mepsise, (Poem,) 159. 
Memories, (Poem,) 377. 
Men, Women, and Beasts, 39. 
Meredith, Bev. Thomas, 200. 
Merton, 30. 
Meta Gray, 225. 
Messenger, Lilian Rozell, 261. 
Metcalfe, Amanda, 376. 
Metcalfe, Barnett, 376. 
Methodism; or, Cbristianitv in Earnest, 

486. 
Meriwether, Dr. Charles Hunter, 71. 
Messenger, Southern Literary, 8, 418. 
Miller, Mary Aver, 459. 
Miller, Willis M., 459. 
Mine, 532. 

Minding the Gap, (Poem,) 561. 
Mintzing, Miss Julia C, 506. 



XXVI 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Minor, B. B., 8. 

Minor Place, 296. 

Miriam, 434. 

Miss Barber's Weekly, 284. 

Missing Bride, 541. 

Mobile Sunday Times, 205, 247, 340. 

Moffett, Emma, 180. 

Moffett, Major Henry, 181. 

Mollie Myrtle, 39, 241. 

Montanas, Tbe, 68. 

Minstrel Pilot, The, (Poem,) 108. 

Miserere, (Poem,) 326. 

Miriam, 401. 

Moore's Anecdotes and Incidents of the 

War, Frank, 197. 
Moore. Miss Mollie E., 295, 555. 
Moore^ Dr., 517. 
Moriarty, Ellen A., 136. 
Moriarty, Eliza, 136. 
Mina, 98. 
Morna, 489. 

Mosely, Mrs. Mary Webster, 9. 
Motherhood, (Poem,) 158. 
Mother's Wish, A, (Poem,) 297. 
Mother's Prayer, A, (Poem,) 358. 
Morton House, 461. 

Morna Elverley ; or, Outlines of Life, 458. 
Morning Dreams, (Poem,) 240. 
Moss-Side, 434. 

Mosses from a Polling Stone, 443. 
Motte Hall, 478. 
Mother-in-Law, 541. 
Muhlbach, L., 245. 
Muni Tell, 70. 
Murray, Hon. Miss, 446. 
Murdaugh, Hon. John W., 455. 
Mrs. Hill's New Cook-Book, 236. 
Myths of the Minstrels, 536. 
My Saviour, Thee, (Poem,) 487. 
My Poses : A Romance of a June Day, 352. 
Mystery of Cedar Bay, The, 324. 
My Cousin Anne, 133. 
My Penny Dip, 145. 
Mysterious Marriage, 30. 
Myrtle Blossoms, 39. 
My Wedding Ping, (Poem,) 48. 
Mvstery, 189. 
Myers, Pev. Dr., 296. 
My Palace of Dreams, (Poem,) 513. 

N ALLEY, Pev. G. W., 414. 
Nation, 68. 
National Quarterly Review, 537. 
Nashville Christian Advocate, 4. 
Nameless, 457. 
Natchitoches Times, 323. 
Neale, Flora, 531. 
Neale, Nellie, 401. 
Nereid, The, 237. 
Neighborhood, Country, 30. 
Nelly Bracken, 357. 
Nemesis, 434. 
Neria, 428. 



Nests at Washington, and Other Poems, 

47. 
New Year's Prayer, My, (Poem,) 305. 
New Orleans Mirror, 4. 
New York Ledger, 31. 
New York Evangelist, 58. 
New York Tribune, 168. 
New York Sunday Times, 168. 
" Nobody Hurt," 455. 
Non Dolet : a Sonnet, 386. 
Norton, Mrs., 3. 
Norfolk Herald, 418. 
" None but the Brave deserve the Fair," 

281. 
Not a Hero, 119. 
Nothing Unusual, 492. 
Novels and Novelists, (Extract,) 152. 
Nott, Dr. Josiah C, 517. 
Nott, Prof. Henry Junius, 517. 
Novelettes of a Traveller, 517. 

OCCUPATION of Richmond, The, 411. 
O'Hara, Theodore, 34. 
Old Brigade, (Poem,) 546. 
Old Songs and New, 379. 
Old Landlord's Daughter, 14. 
Old Story, An, 137. 
Old, Old Story, The, 531. 
Ollivar, Janie, 240. 
On Dress, 208. 
Oneiropion, (Poem,) 238. 
Opportunity, (Review,) 523. 
Osborn, Colonel Wm. C, 233. 
Our Little Annie, 492. 
Our Refugee Household, 142. 
Outlaw's Bride, 30. 
Over the River, (Poem,) 139. 
Old Wharf at Pine Bluff, (Poem,) 262. 
Overall, J. W., 5, 115, 312. 

PALMER, Henrietta Lee, 539. 
Palmer, Dr. J. W., 539. 
Palmer, Rev. B. M., 4, 75. 
Palmer, Mary Stanly Bunce, 475. 
Paper-Collar Gentility, 221. 
Parke Richards, 428. 
Partisan Leader, The, 8, 438. 
Parted Family, and Other Poems, 476. 
Pastimes with my Little Friends, 10. 
Pastor's Household, 176. 
Patterson, Mary, 303. 
Pearl Rivers, 311. 

Pearl ; or, The Gem of the Vale, 247. 
Peck, Sarah E., 264. 
Penny, Virginia, 67. 
Perry, Ex-Governor B. F., 513. 
Perfect through Suffering, 457. 
Percy, Charles, 18. 
Percy, Sarah, 18. 
Perine, Mary Eliza, 164. 
Perine, Edward M., 164. 
Perdita : a Romance of the War, 433. 
Petit, Lizzie, 430. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



XXVI 1 



Petigru, John James L., 463. 

Planter's Daughter, 30. 

Planet Lustra, The, 26. 

Pleasant Hill, (Poem,) 87. 

Phemie's Temptation, 435. 

Philip Arion's Wife, 39. 

Philanthropist, 403. 

Principle and Policy, 403. 

Piatt, Sarah M. B., 46. 

Piatt, John J., 47. 

Piggot, Margaret, 120. 

Pinckney, Miss Maria, 13. 

Pleasants, John Hampton, 105. 

Pleasants, Governor James, 105. 

Pleasants, Hugh P., 105. 

Pleasants, Tarleton, 106. 

Plea for Bed Hair, A : by a Bed-Haired 

Woman, 218. 
Pocahontas : A Legend, 9. 
Pope, Mrs. Mary E., 371. 
Pope, Lieutenant W. S., 371. 
Poe, Edgar Allan, 3, 8, 316. 
Poe's Literati, 3, 534. 
Poems by Two Sisters of the West, 21. 
Poems by Bosa, 34. 
Poems by Mary E. Tucker, 168. 
Poems by Matilda, 415. 
Poetry of Travelling in the United States, 

468. 
Poet-Skies, and Other Experiments in 

Versification, 502. 
Poitevent, Miss Eliza J., 311. 
Popinack, 458. 
Porter, Ina M., 281. 
Porter, Judge B. F., 281. 
Poyas, Catharine Gendron, 515. 
Praise and Principle, 225. 
Preston, Margaret J., 357, 379. 
Preston, Colonel J. T. L., 380. 
Prentice, Geo. D., 2, 70. 
Prentiss, S. S., 29. 
Prince of Seir, The, 377. 
Progression ; or, The South Defended, 114. 
Proem : To the World, 47. 
Pugk, Eliza Lofton, 118. 
Prairie, A Texan, 78. 

QUESTION'S, (Poem,) 50. 
Queen of Hearts, 138. 
Quillo types, 144. 

RACHEL'S What-Not, 100. 
Baids and Bomance of Morgan and 
his Men, 58. 
Bamsay, Mrs. Martha Laurens, 12. 
Bayon d' Amour, 68. 
Bandom Beadings, 100. 
Rankin, McKee, 149. 
Bankin, Be v. Jesse, 459. 
Randall, James B., 273. 
Bandolph Honor, (Beview,) 500. 
Beade, Judge Edwin G., 442. 
Beeves, Marian C. Legare, 498. 



BecoUections of a New England House- 
keeper, 468. 

BecoUections of a Southern Matron, 468. 

BecoUections of Governor Allen, 74. 

Beedy, Captain James, 299. 

Beflected Fragments, 4. ■ 

Befugeeing, 80. 

Befugitta, 398. 

Becords of the Heart, 534. 

Beginald's Bevenge, 420. 

Begister, Mobile, 461. 

Beginald Archer, 526. 

Beid, Christian, 461. 

" Beliquse," 13. 

Beligious Poems, 486. 

Bena, 343. 

Beminiscences of Cuba, 448. 

Beminiscences of York, by a Septuagena- 

, rian, 517. 

Benunciation, (Poem,) 478. 

Bequiem, (Poem,) 360. 

Betribution, 541. 

Bion, Mrs. Mary C, 518. 

Bing, My Wedding, (Poem,) 48. 

Bichards, Bev. Wm., 175. 

Bichards, T. Addison, 176. 

Bichardson, M., 142. 

Bimmer, (Poem.) 282. 

Bip Van Winkle, (Poem,) 149. 

Bichmond: Her Glory and her Graves, 425. 

Bitchie, Anna Cora Mo watt, 9. 

Bipley, Julia Caroline, 477. 

Bipley, Wm. Y., 477. 

Bivals, The : A Tale of the Chickahominy, 
399. 

Bichmond during the War, 404. 

Bives, Mrs. Wm. C, 436. 

Bives, Hon. Wm. Cabell„436. 

Biver, San Marcos, (Poem,) 556. 

Bipley, Mrs. M. A. Ewart, 488. 

Bipley, Colonel V., 488. 

Biverlands, 492. 

Boadside Stories, 282. 

Bomance of Indian Life, 8. 

Bomance of the Green Seal, 25. 

" Bosa," 34. 

Bobinson Delmonte, 534. 

Bound Table, 79, 148, 244, 248, 276, 376, 
435, 499, 500. 

Bose and Lillie Stanhope, 225. 

Bose-Bud, 468. 

Boss, John, 29. 

Bogers, Norman, 110. 

Bogers, M. Louise, 342. 

Bogers, Dr. C, 179. 

Bogers, Loula Kendall, 177. 

Boval Becluse, 12. 

Boyal Cavalcade, The, (Poem,) 314. 

Buined Lives, 368. 

Butledge, Emma Middleton, 13. 

Ruth, 236. 

Buth Baymond ; or, Love's Progress, 468. 

Ryan, Bev. A. J., 436. 



XXV111 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Russell's Magazine, 463. 
Ruby's Husband, 435. 

SCOTT'S Magazine, 180. 
Scanland, Dr. S. E., 42. 
Scrimzeour, Sir Alexander, 480. 
Seaton, Gales, 445. 
Seals, John, 321. 
Sea-Drift, 502, 531. 
Seclusaval; or, The Arts of Romanism, 

368. 
Secret Chamber, 30. 
Secret, Family, 30. 
Seemuller, Mr., 526. 
Sentinel of Pompeii, The, (Poem,) 174. 
Sergeant Dale, 273. 
Shackelford, W. F., 98. 
Shaw, Dr. John, 115. 
Shindler, Mrs. Mary S. B., 475. 
Shindler, Rev. Robt. D., 476. 
Shelton, Mrs. Julia, 285. 
Sheppard, Elizabeth Sara, 492. 
Sibyl, 202. 

Siege of Murany, (Poem,) 340. 
Sigoigne, Madame, 20. 
Silverwood : a Book of Memories, 380. 
Simkins, Colonel Arthur, 492. 
Sisters, The, 183. 
Simonton, Anna Frances, 516. 
Sincerity in Talking, 193. 
Sinclair, Carrie Bell, 196. 
Sinclair, Rev. Elijah, 196. 
Simms's War Poetry of the South, 281. 
Simms, W. Gilmore, 12, 438, 485. 
Simons, Alice F., 479. 
Sketches of Southern Literature, 415. 
Sleeping:, (Poem,) 495. 
Smith, Rev. B. M., 434. 
Smith, Robert White, 165. 
Smith, Rev. Geo. G., 503. 
Smiley, Matilda Caroline, 414. 
So Long Ago, (Poem,) 544. 
Sonnet, 516. 

Sophisms of the Protective Policv, 518. 
Southworth, Mrs. Emma D. E. N., 541. 
Southern Poems of the War, 440. 
Southern Societv, 422. 
Souvenirs of Travel, 292. 
Souvenirs of a Residence in Europe, 437. 
Southern Girl's Homespun Dress, 197. 
Southern Villegiatura, A, 80. 
Southern Opinion, 403. 
" Southland Writers," 6. 
South Carolina Gazette, 10. 
South, The, 128. 
Southern Monthly, The, (Memphis,) 127, 

304, 365. 
Southern Literary News, 161. 
Southern Literary Companion, 184, 284. 
Southern Field and Fireside, 268, 273, 285. 
Southern Literature, On, 504. 
Spencer, Dr. D. M., 366. 
Spencer, Miss Eliza, 542. 



Spencer, Cornelia Phillips, 454. 

Spirit-Mates, 431. 

Spirit-Landscapes, (Poem,) 70. 

Spirit- Whisperings, 309. 

Spotswood, Dr. John C, 296. 

Standing Guard, 531. 

Stanford, Mrs. Mary, 303. 

Stranger's Stratagem ; or, The Double De- 
ceit, 420. 

St. Philip's, 120. 

St. Elmo, 276. 

Stark, A. B., 169. 

Stella Letters, 538. 

Stephens, Hon. Alexander H, 234. 

Stealing Roses through the Gate, (Poem,) 
560. 

Stibbes, Mrs. Agnes Jean, 214. 

Stilling, Margaret, 400. 

Still Faithful, 492. 

Stonewall Jackson's Way, 539. 

Stockton, Rev. Thomas H, 10. 

Stratton, Catharine, 489. 

Stratford Gallery, (Review,) 540. 

Studies in Literature, 2, 70. 

Student of Blenheim Forest, 14. 

Sturdevant, Captain Joel, 28. 

Sturges, Mr., 419. 

Stuart Leigh, 448. 

Sunnybank, 435. 

Summer Memory, A, 472. 

Summer Idyl, A, (Poem,) 251. 

Summer Noonday Dreams, 392. 

Sunset Musings, (Poem,) 456. 

Summer Retreat of a Southern Planter, 
482. 

Swain, Margie P., 171. 

Swift, Miss, 106. 

Sylvia's World, 463. 

Sybil Huntingdon, 477. 

TALES for the Freemason's Fireside, 
284. 
Tales of the Weird and Wonderful, 26. 
Tale of the Pearl-Trader, 26. 
Tales and Legends of Louisiana, 87. 
Tales and Ballads, 468. 
Talking, 191. 

Terhune, M. Virginia, 433. 
Terhune, Rev. E. P., 434. 
Tears on the Diadem, 14. 
Tenella, La, 445. 
Temperance Crusader, 204. 
Temperance Lyre, 477. 
Ten Years Outre Mer, 538. 
Thine and Mine; or, The Stepmother's 

Reward, 531. 
Thackeray, Wm. Makepeace, 463. 
Thomas, Sarah Brewer, 5. 
Three Bernices; or, Ansermo of the Crag, 

376. 
Three Golden Links, 284. 
Think and Act, 67. 
Thompson, John R., 8. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



XXIX 



Thoughts about Talking, 193. 

Thou art Growing Old, Mother, (Poem,) 

374. 
Timothy, Lewis, 10. 
Tiinrod, Henry, 492. 
To the Memory of Captain Herndon, 

(Poem,) 195. 
To my Absent Husband, 266. 
Townsend, Maiy Ashly, 144. 
Townsend, Gideon, 144. 
Townsend, Cora, 144. 
Towles, Catherine W., 283. 
Towles, Hon. John C, 284. 
Trials of May Brooke, 14. 
Trials of an Orphan, 294. 
Transition, (Poem,) 253. 
Triumphs of Spring, 446. 
Triumphant, 503. 
|jjfeatise on Gardening, 12. 
Tried for her Life, 542. 
Tucker, Mary E., 163. 
Tucker, Beverly, 8, 438. 
Tucker, Judge St. George, 438. 
Three Beauties, 541. 
Two Sisters, 541. 

Two Lives ; or, To Seem and To Be, 225. 
Two Angels, The, (Poem,) 300. 
Two Heroines ; or, Freaks of Fortune, 549. 
Types of Mankind, 517. 

UNDER the Stones, 144. 
Under the Lamplight, (Poem,) 185. 
Under the Oaks, 401. 
Unattainable, The, 189. 
Unknown, (Poem,) 198. 
Unknown, 517. 
Under the Leaves, 362. 
Undertow : a Sonnet, 387. 
Upshur, Mary J. S., 416. 
Upshur, Wm. Stith, 416. 
Upshur, Judge Abel P., 416. 

YALERIE Aylmer, 461. 
Vance, Sallie Ada, 299. 
Yanitas, (Poem,) 172. 
Van Voorhises, 144. 
Van Wickle, J. O, 144. 
Vanquished, (Review,) 40. 
Vashti; or, Until Death Us do Part, 

280. 
Vendel, Emile de, 244. 
Verses of a Lifetime, 468. 
Vernon Grove ; or, Hearts as They Are, 

469. 
Victor and Victim, (Poem,) 507. 
Virginia Zulaine, 12. 
Violet; or, The Cross and Crown, 225, 

228. 
Violetta and I, 229. 
Viola, 455. 

Vine, My, (Poem,) 295. 
Virginia, 403. 
Vick, Captain Joseph, 440. 



Village, A Virginia, (1861,) 428. 
Vivia; or, The Secret of Power, 541. 

WAGGLE, Sam, 157. 
Waddell, John, 440. 
Walker, Judge Alexander, 5, 144. 
Wallis S. Teakle, 447. 
Wakelee, Miss Kate C, 194. 
Waking of the Blind Girl by the Tones 

of the Grand Organ, 257. 
WalthaU, Major W. T., 245, 248. 
Walker, Miss, 296. 
Walker, Judith Page, 436. 
Walker, Colonel Francis, 437. 
Warfield, Mrs. Catharine A., 17. 
Ward, Hon. John, 225. 
Ware, Mary, 292. 
Way it aH Ended, The, 433. 
Weiss, Mrs. S. A., 391. 
Weimar, 552. 
Welby, Amelia B., 3. 
West, Florence D., 565. 
Westmoreland, Maria J., 188. 
Westmoreland, Dr. W. F., 189. 
What is Life ? (Poem,) 407. 
Whig, Richmond, 417. 
Whipple, E. P., 519. 
Whitaker, Mary S., 480. 
Whitaker, Daniel K., 5, 481. 
Whitaker, Lily, 482. 
Whittlesev, Miss Sarah J. C, 420. 
White, Thomas W., 8. 
Whiting, General John, 6. 
Why do I Love Him? (Poem,) 152. 
White Camelia, The, (Poem,) 505. 
Wife, The, (Poem,) 100. 
Wife's Victory, 541. 
Willard, Mrs. Florence J., 148. 
Williams, Marie Bushnell, 85. 
Williams, Josiah P., 86. 
Williams, Dr. R. D., 129. 
Williams, Mrs. Bessie W., 205. 
Will's a Widower, (Poem,) 241. 
Wilev, Mrs. Mary, 400. 
Windle, Mrs. Catharine F., 151. 
Windle, Geo. W., 151. 
Windle, Mary J., 151. 
Wind Whispers, 348. 
Winter Wind, (Poem,) 527. 
Wilson, L. M., 280. 
Wood Notes, 449. 
World of the Ideal, (Poem,) 54. 
Words to a " Lied ohne Worte," (Poem,) 

526. 
Woman in America : Her Work and her 

Reward, 225. 
Woman an Enigma, 225. 
Women of France, The, 203. 
Women, Employments of, 67. 
Women, Five " Hundred Employments 

adapted to, 67. 
Woman: Her Education, Aims, Sphere, 

Influence, and Destiny, 369. 



XXX 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



" Women of the South," by Mary Forrest, 

57, 347, 391. 
Worthington, Jane Taylor, 9. 
Woodbine, Jenny, 183. 
Wreath of Rhymes, A, 116. 
Woodson, Mary E., 433. 
Wynne, Emma Moflfett, 180. 

XARIFFA, 144. 
Xariffa's Poems, 145. 
XlXth Century, 458. 

YALE Literary Magazine, 473. 
Yeiser, Sarah C, 161. 



Yeiser, Dr. Philip, 161. 

Yule, 434. 

Young Housewife's Counsellor and Friend, 

454. 
Young Sailor, 477. 
Yorkville Enquirer, 479. 
"Year of Grief," 515. 
Young, Mrs. Maud J., 551. 

yAIDEE, 505. 

Lk Zimmerman, Mrs. Bettie M., 200. 

Zena Clifton, 262. 

Zenaida, 53. 





INTRODUCTORY. 







HIS record of the " Living Female Writers of the South " 
is intended to embody the names and works of all those 
ladies who have written for publication, and been recognized 
as " writers " in the Southern States. 
Few of the " writers " sketched have made a profession of litera- 
ture; that is, have made writing the means whereby they earn a 
subsistence. From the Southern portion of the United States come 
the most popular of the Female Novelists of America. 

Although literature in the South is in its youth, there is a bloom of 
youthful vigor and glowing enthusiasm about it, giving promise for the 
future. Yet dilettanteism — the treating literature as if it were the 
amusement of an idle hour, instead of a most grave and serious pursuit, 
on the right following of which, to a great extent, our people's intel- 
lectual life depends — has been the bane of Southern literature ; this, 
and the eulogy of many editors, whose politeness and amiability would 
not let them see the mischief they were doing. It is incumbent upon 
the press of the South to try to redress this evil ; to stimulate those 
who write tolerably, to write well if they can ; and those who write 
well, to write better ; and gently but firmly to repress those who have 
mistaken their vocation. 

What has given the literature of France its brilliancy, that of Ger- 
many its depth of learning, and that of England its clear rationality, 
but the presence of a competent and exigent criticism ? 



I INTRODUCTORY. 

In this collection will be found record of Southern writers, good, 
bad, and indifferent. I have not pretended to pick the chaff from the 
wheat. I have made record of such writers as have written and pub- 
lished sufficient to form a volume, and told the world who they are, 
and what they have done, and left it to conclude what it has a right 
to expect from them in the future. 

The pages following show that in the South we have creative art ; 
but we have not that art of criticism which comes from culture and 
study. 

It is but meet and right to give a superficial glance at those " female 
writers of the South " who are no longer among the living ; and of 
those of whom little is known, who may be among the living. 

The enterprise of the South in journalism can hardly be complained 
of, if we estimate it by the number of efforts made. 

The late George D. Prentice, distinguished as poet and journalist, 
(born at Griswold, Conn., on December 18, 1802, removed to Louis- 
ville, September, 1830, and on the 24th day of November following 
published the first number of the Louisville Journal: died January 
21, 1870,) by private correspondence, and timely notices in his Jour- 
nal, caused many a blossom of poetry to blow in hearts that might 
otherwise only have worn a purple crown of thistles. Of many of 
these poets the pages following bear record. George D. Prentice exer- 
cised a wide influence in the field of literature. To quote from Mr. 
George W. Griffin's " Studies in Literature : " * " The affluence of Mr. 
Prentice in genius and in equipments of education seemed to be well- 
nigh endless. He was as generous in the beneficent use of his intel- 
lectual wealth as he was great in the magnitude of its possession. 
Those who knew him intimately, during his editorial career in Louis- 
ville, can easily call up from the storehouse of memory a hundred ex- 
amples of his judicious, unstinted, and benevolent kindness to young 
aspirants for fame." 

* Second edition, revised, (Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger,) Philadelphia, 1871. 



INTEODUCTOEY. 3 

The lovely song-bird "Amelia" was one of Mr. Prentice's most 
noted protegees. 

Amelia B. Welby, whose maiden name was Coppuck, was born in 
the town of St. Michael's, Md., in 1821, and died at Lexington, Ky., 
May 2, 1852. When she was about fourteen years of age, her father 
removed to Kentucky. She married, in 1838, Mr. George B. Welby, 
of Louisville. Through Mr. Prentice, " Amelia's " poems were intro- 
duced to the public. 

A collection of her poems was published in 1844, which passed 
through four large editions. In 1850, Appleton & Co., New York, 
published her poems in one handsome volume, illustrated. 

Edgar A. Poe, in his " Literati," says : " Mrs. Welby has nearly all 
the imagination of Maria del Occidente, with a more refined taste ; and 
nearly all of the passion of Mrs. Norton, with a nicer ear, and equal 
art. Very few American poets are at all comparable with her in the 
true poetic qualities. . . . 

" There are some poets in America (Bryant and Sprague, for exam- 
ple) who equal Mrs. Welby in the negative merits of that limited 
versification which they chiefly affect — the iambic pentameter ; but 
none equal her in the richer and positive merits of rhythmical variety, 
conception, invention. They, in the old routine, rarely err. She often 
surprises, and always delights, by novel, rich, and accurate combina- 
tion of the ancient musical expression." 

An author, whose books achieved popularity of the purest and rarest 
type — " books that are the evident product of intellect and culture ; 
full of vigor, as well as the most delicate grace and perception — the 
portraiture showing the graphic and true lines of a master, and her 
works all touched with the issues of a refined, womanly, and religious 
spirit"* — has recently been called from her ministry here to a 
heavenly home. I allude to 

Jane Tandy Chinn Cross, who was born in Harrodsburg, Ky., in 
1817, and died in the same town, October, 1870. 

*Mary Forrest. 



4 INTRODUCTORY. 

At a youthful age Miss Chinn was married to James P. Hardin, of Ken- 
tucky. He died in 1842, leaving his widow with three children. In 
1848, Mrs. Hardin was married to the Kev. Dr. Cross, who survives her. 

With her husband, she made a tour to Europe, and corresponded 
with the Nashville Christian Advocate. This series of letters was pub- 
lished under the title of " Reflected Fragments." It was about 1851 be- 
fore Mrs. Cross commenced writing for publication. 

Her books are four volumes for children, and "Duncan Adair; or, 
Captured in Escaping;" "Azile: A Story," Nashville, 1868. 

Mrs. Cross wrote a great deal for periodicals, in prose and verse, and 
translated in a masterly manner, from the Spanish of Florian, " Gon- 
zalvo de Cordova ; or, The Conquest of Granada." 

" Azile," her most ambitious effort, is a quiet story, straightforward, 
growing in interest to the close. The scene of the first part is in Dres- 
den. There is some fine-art criticism, and a deal of information about 
the customs and habits of the German people, their amusements and 
recreations. The scene is transferred to the Southern States at the 
beginning of the war, (I860,) and ends with the first battle of Manassas. 
Mrs. Cross's picture of life in the South, during that time of revulsion 
and enthusiasm, is true in conception. Her style was clear, smooth, 
and lively ; and knowing Jean Paul, she was an enthusiastic admirer 
of him. 

The minor writers of Kentucky, who have no mention in this vol- 
ume, and are not among the living, are few in number. Among the 
dead may be mentioned Mary Wilson Betts. She was born about 
1830, near Maysville, Ky, At the time of her marriage (1854) to 
Morgan L. Betts, editor of the Detroit Times, she was one of the most 
popular of the younger writers of the South. " Mrs. Betts was widely 
admired as a young poet whose writings gave promise of decided ex- 
cellence." She died suddenly, September 16, 1854. 

The New Orleans Mirror — a literary journal established by Mark 
F. Bigney, a poet and journalist, (at this time editor of the New 



INTRODUCTORY. 5 

Orleans Times, was a medium for the debut of several of the female 
writers of the South. I believe the suspension of this weekly paper 
was caused by the war. There have been a vast number of literary 
journals started in New Orleans — short-lived — and it would be of 
little benefit to attempt to enumerate the titles. Frequent mention is 
made in the following pages of the Sunday issues of the New Orleans 
daily papers, which contain much that is worthy of preservation 
in a more permanent form. D. C. Jenkins, Judge Walker, Alexan- 
der Dimitry, J. W. Overall, M. F. Bigney, D. K. Whitaker, W. M. 
Burwell, Durant DuPonte, and other less known writers are em- 
ployed editorially on the New Orleans press. 

There are several authors resident in Louisiana, of Northern birth, 
who have made the Pelican State their home, and might be classed as 
among the writers of the South, whose names do not appear in this 
volume. 

Sarah Brewer, born in Wilbraham, Mass., 1793, came South over 
fifty years ago, to establish institutions for the education of the daugh- 
ters of the South. She married Captain David Thomas, of Jackson, 
La., and after his death, in 1849, removed to New Orleans, which she 
made her home. In 1857, Mrs. Thomas crossed the Atlantic, and 
made a tour of England, Scotland, Ireland, France, etc., and prepared 
for publication (J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, 1860) " Travels 
in Europe, Egypt, and Palestine." 

Mrs. Thomas is the oldest living female writer of the South — nearly 
eighty years of age. She has an earnest desire to aid in building up 
a Southern literature. She has on hand MSS. for a volume of poems, 
collected from periodicals to which she occasionally contributed. 
New Orleans is her home. 

Since this volume has been printed, Mrs. Sophie A. DuPonte, nee 
Brook, of New Orleans, has published a translation of " Callirhoe," 
(Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger, Philadelphia,) one of the novels of 
Maurice Sand, son of Madame Dudevant, of whose nom de plume 
he has claimed inheritance. Mrs. DuPonte's translation is excellent. 
Mrs. DuPonte is the wife of Durant DuPonte, of the New Orleans press. 



6 INTEODUCTOEY. 

Georgia, styled the "Empire State," is certainly the empress of 
the Southern States as regards the number of female writers, and from 
having been the home of the most successful literary journals of the 
South, and whose literary light burned brighter and longer. 

In the "Southland Writers," published in 1869, a brief notice is 
made of Mary Catharine Bigby, born in Newnan, Ga., and resident 
in that charming town ; the author of many gems of verse, and several 
prize poems. Mrs. Bigby died at Newnan, July 23, 1870. 

Alabama's literary journals have been few and of brief existence. 
The people of this State are a commercial rather than a literary peo- 
ple ; and, to quote the language of the late Hon. Alexander B. Meek, 
poet and historian, "Until a taste for the fine arts is excited, when 
that mighty, slumbering attribute of the mind — its only immortal 
part — the ideal, is stirred, and not till then, may we hope for a native 
literature; a literature that shall redeem and illustrate this cotton- 
growing region. All previous efforts will be a wasteful dissemination 
of pearls. You might as well scatter, with the vain hope of vegeta- 
tion, the delicate seed of the chrysanthemum or the dahlia upon the 
sandy slopes of the Chandeleur Isles." 

A few periodical works have been maintained in Alabama for a time, 
by the efforts of an exalted purpose upon the part of the publishers ; 
but they have met with no adequate and spirited patronage, and have 
ceased to exist, and soon been forgotten. 

Alabama has had authors — now not among the living — of whom 
we are proud. Meek, from the southern part of the State ; from Mid- 
dle Alabama, Pickett ; and Jere Clemens, from a northern county, were 
a distinguished trio. 

" A very distinguished and sweet daughter of Southern literature 
was Caroline Lee Hentz. She was the daughter of General John 
Whiting, of Massachusetts, and in 1825 married Mr. Hentz, who was 
at one time a professor at Chapel Hill College. Her destiny was cast 
with the South, where she preferred to live, and to end a delicate exist- 
ence, amid the magnolia flowers, whose pure and gentle zephyrs min- 



INTRODUCTORY. 7 

gled their aroma with her dying breath. Her productions are pure 
fiction, simple and true, drawn from the heart, and highly illustrative 
of the unstained elements of Southern society, manners, and morals. 
They are domestic tales, which reflect the best features of home life, 
and are true, because drawn from the fountains of nature. The 
authoress does not strike for the bolder region of historic romance, but 
relies upon a truthful and appreciative sense of the affections, which 
she handles with delightful delicacy." * 

Mrs. Hentz passed many useful years in Alabama ; first, at Locust 
Dell, near Florence, Ala., (of which homestead her elder daughter 
charmingly sang in after years,) where she was in charge of a female 
academy for nine years — afterward at Tuscaloosa, and then for three 
years at the pleasant town of Tuskegee. Mrs. Hentz died in 1856, at 
Columbus, Ga. 

Mrs. Angele De V. Hull, who resided in Mobile, and died there, 
was a favorite contributor for several years to Graham's Magazine 
and other literary journals. She was a sister of Mrs. Adelaide De 
V. Chaudron, a sketch of whom opens the record of living female 
writers of Alabama. 

In Natchez, the gay-society town of Mississippi in years agone, the 
lovely, lively Eleanor Percy Ware was a belle among noted belles. 
Miss Ware was the younger sister of Mrs. Catharine A. Warfield, and 
author jointly with her of the "Wife of Leon, and other Poems," pub- 
lished in 1843, and the " Indian Chamber, and other Poems," (1846.) 
She married Mr. Henry Lee, a native of Virginia, and resided in 
Hinds County, Miss., where she died in 1849. 

In 1860, S. H. Goetzel & Co., of Mobile, published "Ellen ; or, The 
Fanatic's Daughter," a novel, by Mrs. V. G. Cowden. This lady was a 
resident of Mississippi. Her book was not a success. 

Virginia, the " Old Dominion " State, is well known for the produc- 
tion of statesmen, jurists, historians, and authors. " The Knights of 

* William Archer Cocke, of Virginia. 



8 INTRODUCTOEY. 

the Horseshoe " — an interesting tale, founded on colonial life in Vir- 
ginia in the days of Governor Spottiswoode, in which the author, 
William A. Caruthers, of Virginia, has given some fine illustrations 
of the manners, habits, and tastes of the old Virginia settlers — has 
seemed to me as the Alpha of Virginia fiction. 

Judge Beverly Tucker produced two very attractive novels, one of 
which, " The Partisan Leader," acquired considerable notice during 
the late war, on account of its political prescience. His nephew, a 
brave and gallant man with gifted genius, was the author of an inter- 
esting historic novel, entitled "Hansford: A Tale of Bacon's Kebellion,' , 
and it is a pleasure to tell the readers of the South of a niece of this 
latter, and grand-niece of the former, who has recently published her 
first book, "The Holcombes." 

The Southern Literary Messenger, published in Bichmond, under the 
editorial care of Thomas W. White — the first number published in 
1835, and the last in 1864 — was the longest-lived monthly of the 
South. To this magazine there was a bright constellation of con- 
tributors. Its editors, after Mr. White, were B. B. Minor, E. A. Toe, 
John K. Thompson, George W. Bagby, and F. H. Alfriend ; and its 
contributors embraced the names of men and women now well known 
wherever the English language is read. 

Among the authoresses of Virginia, not elsewhere noted, mention 
must at least be made of Mrs. Mary H. Eastman, daughter of Dr. 
Thomas Henderson, of the U. S. A., and wife of Captain S. Eastman, of 
the U. S. A. She was born at Warrenton, Fauquier County, Va. While 
she was a child, her parents removed to the City of Washington, where 
she lived until the time of her marriage, which took place at West 
Point, in 1835. As a companion of her husband at Fort Snelling and 
other frontier stations, Mrs. Eastman enjoyed excellent opportunities of 
studying the Indian character, which she has graphically depicted in 
her four works relating to the Aborigines of America, viz. : 

1. Dahcotah ; or, Legends of the Sioux. New York, 12mo, 1849. 

2. Bomance of Indian Life. Philadelphia, 8vo, 1852. 



INTRODUCTOEY. 9 

3. Aboriginal Portfolio, illustrated by S. Eastman, U. S. A. 4to, 
1853. 

4. Chicora, and other Regions of the Conquerors and Conquered. 
4to, 1854. 

Besides these, Mrs. Eastman, in 1852, published a novel entitled 
" Aunt Phillis's Cabin," intended as a response to Mrs. Stowe's " Uncle 
Tom's Cabin." The sale of this book reached eighteen thousand copies 
in a few weeks. In 1856, she published " Fashionable Life," a novel, 
the motto of which was — "But the world! The heart and mind of 
woman I Every one would like to know something about that ! " Mrs. 
Eastman has been a frequent contributor to magazines, etc. 

Mrs. Mary Webster Mosely, wife of John G. Mosely, of Rich- 
mond, and daughter of Robert Pleasants, wrote for various periodicals, 
and was highly esteemed for her virtues and literary accomplishments. 
Her only published work was " Pocahontas," a legend, with historical 
and traditional notes ; issued in 1840. Mrs. Mosely died in Richmond, 
in 1844, aged 52 years. 

Mrs. Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie has been frequently sketched 
as a Southern authoress, and I am proud to place the name of so gifted 
a woman upon my pages. Anna Cora Ogden was born in Bordeaux, 
France, in 1818. When sixteen years of age, she was married to 
James Mowatt, of New York, a lawyer of wealth and culture. For a 
history of her eventful and heroic life, the reader is referred to her 
" Autobiography of an Actress," published first in 1855. Mr. Mowatt 
died in 1851. 

In 1854, Mrs. Mowatt became the wife of William F. Ritchie, at 
that time editor of the Richmond Enquirer. 

Mrs. Ritchie published numerous plays and novels that were suc- 
cessful. She died in England, July 26, 1870. 

Mrs. Jane Tayloe Worthington, wife of Dr. F. A. Worthington, 
of Ohio, and daughter of Colonel Lomax, of the U. S. A., was a na- 
tive of Virginia. By the frequent changes of residence involved in 
military service, she was afforded large opportunities for observation 
and social and intellectual culture, but she always retained a strong 



10 INTRODUCTORY. 

attachment for her native State, and nearly all her writings in prose 
and verse appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger of Richmond. 
She died in 1847. 

Mrs. Martha Haines Butt Bennett, born in Norfolk, Va., was 
the author of several successful volumes. " Leisure Moments," a col- 
lection of short tales, essays, and sketches, was published in New York 
in 1859. She contributed to various periodicals. 

In 1865 she was married to Mr. N. J. Bennett, of Bridgeport, Conn 

In 1866, Mrs. Bennett published a volume for children, entitled 
" Pastimes with my Little Friends," (New York, Carleton.) She died 
in New York in 1871. 

Mrs. E. H. Evans, a sister of the Rev. Thomas H. Stockton, and 
the wife of Dr. M. H. Evans, of Amelia County, Va., published a 
volume of poems, (Philadelphia, 1851, 12mo,) and was a contributor 
to magazines. She is the mother of Mrs. Mary Wiley, who is sketched 
among the living female writers of Virginia. 

The "Old Dominion" State has had a few other female writers 
who are worthy of mention, whose literary works were popular and 
attractive, but whose addresses, amid the mighty changes of a few 
years, it has been impossible to ascertain. 

South Carolina has been quite as fruitful of endeavors to establish 
literary journals as her Southern sisters, and quite as unfortunate, if 
judged by the financial standard alone. Literary success has often 
been good, while the financial was not; and in general, the former 
has been far ahead of the latter. 

Journalism in South Carolina dates back about a hundred and thirty 
years. Its protagonist — to use that word in Mr. Petigru's sense of it 
— was Mr. Lewis Timothy, who in Charleston established The South 
Carolina Gazette, in the year 1731. Literary periodicals have been 
less successful, financially speaking, than the political; less than agri- 
cultural ; and less, if possible, than religious. Experiments, however, 
have been made in a large variety of spheres, from the heaviest to the 
lightest ; from grave to gay ; from the orthodox doctrinal utterances 



INTRODUCTORY. 11 

of Church organs, to the flippant on dits of village gossip ; from the 
Magnolia (not grandiflora) of Mr. Whitaker, to the sweet little Rose- 
bud of Mrs. Gilman ; from the solid learning of Legare's Southern 
Review, to the niaiseries of Sargent's Brazen Nose. In earlier times 
there were TJie Columbian Herald, The South Carolina Museum, The 
Monthly Magazine, Heriot's Magazine, and The Southern Literary Jour- 
nal of Mr. Carroll; not to mention some half literary and half politi- 
cal issues. Then there were Whitaker's Magazine, or magazines, and 
afterward Russell's. Mrs. Gilman's Southern Rose bloomed for a while. 
Besides, Mr. Simms did earnest and effective work in TJie Southern 
Literary Gazette, TJie Cosmopolitan, The Magnolia, his Southern and 
Western Magazine and Review; and did heroic work on The Southern 
Quarterly Review. All of these lived only for a time. Not one of all 
the above — and this list of the dead is not complete, and many were 
meritorious in their way — not one is now living. 

In those past days, the great mass of pen-work was done by men. 
Few of the gentler sex ventured into print. It was not the style. The 
life of ease, elegance, and leisure, for ladies, in those statelier times, 
was full of noble and beautiful deeds ; but few of those ladies cared 
for literary laurels, and many seemed to shrink with native delicacy 
from the bruit of authorial notoriety. The number of female writers 
in the past of the " Palmetto State " is small. About a dozen names, 
of the few dozens who have written for newspapers, are all that have 
become authors ; and several of these never wrote a line for publica- 
tion, but their letters or writings were given by others to the w r orld 
after their lives had closed. 

The earliest name that we meet is that of Mrs. Sophie Hume, whose 
" Exhortation to the Inhabitants of the Province of South Carolina, 
to bring their Deeds to the Light of Christ and their own Consciences," 
seems to be a pious book, and one of a woman thoroughly in earnest. 
She dates this volume at " Charles Town, in South Carolina, the 30th 
of the Tenth Month, 1747 ; " and it was published at Bristol, in Eng- 
land, in 1750. Her " Epistle to the Inhabitants of South Carolina " 
appeared in 1754, London. 



12 INTRODUCTORY. 

A few years later, in 1760, appears the second name. This is Mrs. 
Mary Hutson, n£e Woodward, whose good works live after her in the 
shape of a small volume — " Living Christianity Delineated in the 
Diaries and Letters of two Eminently Pious Persons, lately deceased, 
viz., Mr. Hugh Bryan, and Mrs. Mary Hutson, both of South Caro- 
lina." The book is divided into two parts, the second pertaining to 
Mrs. Hutson. 

A decade later, 1770, appeared a " Treatise on Gardening," which 
had been written by Mrs. Martha Logan, in her seventieth year. 

Later, Mrs. Anna Izard Deas appeared as the editor of the " Cor- 
respondence of Mr. Ralph Izard, of South Carolina, from the year 1774 
to 1804," which she prefaced with a short memoir of her father. A 
second volume is still unpublished. 

In 1811 was published Dr. David Ramsay's "Memoirs of Mrs. Mar- 
tha Laurens Ramsay, with Extracts from her Diary." Of this excel- 
lent lady — a daughter of Mr. Henry Laurens, of Revolutionary fame 
— Mr. Simms says : " Her letters to her son at college are models of 
their kind. She was a matron and a mother of rare excellence of char- 
acter, of pure nature, of vigorous thought and fine taste, and richly 
deserving of that title of strong-minded woman which is so much 
abused at the present day. Her mind had strength without pretension, 
grace without flippancy or conceit ; and she wrote her morals at once 
from heart and head, not from the latter alone, and feeling the faith 
which she so earnestly professed, and conscious of the truth in all the 
lessons which she taught." 

In the earlier years of tbe present century figured in Charleston so- 
ciety Mrs. Charles Baring, a lady of the great banker's family, an 
actress and author, who wrote " Altorf," "The Royal Recluse," "Vir- 
ginia Zulaine," and possibly some other dramas. Dr. Simms, who met 
Mrs. Baring in her old age, says : " She had been a successful actress, 
and even in her latter days she carried herself with the air of a tragedy 
queen who had been trained in the excellent but stately school of the 
famous Siddons." 



INTRODUCTORY. 13 

The subject-matter of Miss Maria Pinckney's work in defence of 
nullification principles, indicates the force and character of her vigor- 
ous and practical mind. 

Under the touching and appropriate title of " Reliquse " are em- 
bodied the poems of Mrs. Daniel Blake, nee Emma Middleton Rut- 
ledge. Sprung from a line most illustrious in a State of historic renown, 
this lady, a daughter of Major Henry M. Rutledge, and grand-daugh- 
ter both of Arthur Middleton and of Edward Rutledge, whose names 
grace the Declaration of Independence, was born in 1811, and died in 
her native Charleston in 1853. Nature, which gave her personal beauty, 
rare elegance of manner, and unequalled loveliness of disposition, added 
a childlike unconsciousness, which made her the only one unaware of 
her great charms, and gave her the divine gift of song. The character 
of her poetic principle is that vital sympathy with the outer world, which 
the true poet alone knows. As she herself so happily expresses it, 
she seemed to hold 

" The fibres of a hidden chain, 
That, linked by thousand sympathies, 
In close communion can enwreathe 
Insensate things with those that breathe ; 



As if pure spirit stooped to hold 
Commerce with child of mortal mould.' 



One rises from the perusal of this dainty volume with a conscious- 
ness of something sweetly sad, but fresh and hopeful ; with a feeling 
like the memory of sad music heard at morning, in spring, amid the 
smiles and odors of early violets. The tone, the thoughts, and the 
spirit of the book are all the reflex of an accomplished, refined, and 
gifted Southern woman. 

The name of Miss Mary Elizabeth Lee, her delicacy of constitution, 
her superb endowments, her physical suffering, her early death, the hue 
of mingled melancholy and hope that tinges all her genius and her life, 
these are all fresh in the memories of the host of friends who knew 
and appreciated her in Charleston. Her " Poems " were published in 



14 INTEODUCTOEY. 

1851, two years after her death. She died in her thirty-ninth year, at 
her home, in Charleston. She had contributed to most of the literary 
journals of the South, in her day — to The Southern Rose, The Orion, 
and Whitaker's Magazine, of her native State, and to others not entirely 
literary. 

Besides the " living writers " noted in this volume, there are a few 
not mentioned on account of the impossibility of obtaining data for 
a sketch, etc. 

Mrs. Anna H. Dorsey is, I believe, a native of Baltimore. She has 
been writing for over twenty years, (without any notice of herself or 
writings, in the numerous " cyclopaedias of literature.") She has writ- 
ten dramas, poems, novels, tales and essays, a great many stories for 
young people, and in all she has shown considerable talent and 
research. "The Trials of May Brooke," "Tears on the Diadem," 
" The Old Landlord's Daughter," etc., are the delight of school-girls. 
Nearly all of the Catholic periodicals have articles from her pen, for 
she is a most prolific writer. 

" The Student of Blenheim Forest," second edition, was published in 
1867, (John Murphy & Co., Baltimore.) This story is sad, but beau- 
tiful. It opens in Virginia, at Blenheim Forest, the elegant residence 
of Colonel Clavering, on the banks of the Rappahannock River. The 
elegant diction and refined taste displayed in this book commend it to 
cultivated readers. 

" The Lily of the Valley ; or, Margie and I: and other Poems," by 
Amy Gray, (Baltimore, Kelly & Piet, 1870.) This little volume con- 
tains the first fruits of the imagination of a lady of Maryland, who 
published the book " to aid in the education of destitute little girls of 
the South, orphaned by the late war." 

" Byrd Lyttle " is the nom de plume of a lady of Baltimore, who 
has contributed charming sketches to Southern magazines, and pub- 
lished one small volume, " Mary Austin ; or, The New Home," (Alfred 
Martien, Philadelphia, 1870.) This book is inscribed to the "Sunday- 
school Scholars of Memorial Church, Baltimore." 



INTEODUCTOEY. 15 

These and perhaps a few others, whose names we find as con- 
tributors to the numerous ephemeral periodicals of the past, make up 
the total of the small number of "female writers " that figure in the 
literature of the Southern States who are not mentioned in our volume. 

The data of this work are correct, and reliable, and carried to the 
present time. The errors that appeared in the " Southland Writers," 
I have endeavored to correct. I can only hope this book may meet 
with as many kind friends as did that, and be of more benefit to our 
infant Southern Literature. 
Mobile, June, 1871. 



aiiflgMk, 





HYING 



FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



KENTUCKY. 



MRS. CATHARINE ANN WARFIELD. 



" G-enius does what it must, and Talent does what it can." 




HESE words of Mr. Lytton sprung involuntarily to our lips 
when we turned away from the hospitable door of Beech- 
moor, on the occasion of a recent visit to its gifted mistress. 
She stood at the door, looking wistfully after our departing 
carriage, and we watched the calm, gracious, matronly figure, with its 
well-poised, haughty head, until the last wave of the beautiful white 
hand was shut from our eyes by the thick groups of spruce and fir- 
trees which stud the borders of the carriage-drive. The grass was 
fresh and dewy, glittering with water diamonds, and the tufts of pink 
and white peonies, the fragrant lilies and early spring roses grouped 
upon the lawn, filled the morning air with perfumes. As we passed 
through the gate, the breeze wafted to us a strong breath from the 
trestled honeysuckle and jasmines that overhung, canopied, and com- 
pletely curtained in the back porch which adjoined Mrs. Warn" eld's 
apartments. It was a sigh of farewell from a spot where we had passed 
two happy months, — a period for remembrance, when, like the hero 
Gottreich, of Jean Paul's little tale, we come to make up our " Re- 
membrances of the best hours of Life, for the hour of Death," — when 
ourselves " at our last hour with the views of 

17 



we 



, too, mean to cheer 



18 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

a happy life, and to look back from the glow of evening to the bright- 
ness of the morning of oar youth; — then we will recall our visit to 
Beechmoor, and the friendship of its mistress. We will remember the 
hours of frank intercourse and honest communion of heart and soul 
passed under the shade of those clambering jasmine vines. So few 
people in this world are thoroughly true, — so few are thoroughly re- 
fined, — so few are thoroughly sympathetic, — so few are thoroughly 
educated. The author of "The Household of Bouverie" is all of 
these. It was like awakening from a beautiful dream to go away 
from that deep inner life, with the continual intoxication of that soulful 
society, back into the bustling, fretting, hurrying world of travel ; — 
to look away from the soft dark-gray eyes, radiating emanations from 
a spirit so warm and so strong, — eyes so full of vitality, both mental 
and sensuous, — into the hard, rapid, eager eyes of money-changers 
and souls engrossed in thoughts of traffic and material life. During 
this visit we learned many facts connected with our subject. 

Charles Percy, a captain of the British army, was one of the early 
colonists of Louisiana. He married his third wife, a lady of Ope- 
lousas. His descendants are numerous in Mississippi and Louisiana. 

Sarah Percy was married first to Colonel John Ellis, a man of wealth 
and influence at Natchez, Miss. After his death, she married Nathan- 
iel A. Ware, a lawyer from South Carolina, — a man of profound 
learning and well versed in science, particularly in Botany, but a 
man full of eccentricities and naturally very shy and reserved in char- 
acter, His domestic trials rendered him bitter and outwardly morose, 
even to his friends, sometimes even to his children. He was a philos- 
opher of the school of Voltaire, a fine scholar, with a pungent, acrid 
wit, and cool sarcasm, which made him both feared and respected by 
those brought into collision with him. He lived to be old, and died 
of yellow-fever, near Galveston, Texas, where he had invested his 
means very extensively in lands. He was a handsome man, his feat- 
ures marked, — his nose aquiline, his mouth small and compressed, his 
eyes of a bright blue, his complexion pure and fair as a young girl's, 
his cheeks freshly colored, his brow white as a lily, — a very venerable- 
looking man, with long, thin, white locks falling on his neck ; his fore- 
head was very high, very prominent, and very narrow. He wrote two 
works on Political Economy, which made some reputation for him 
among the class of men who take interest in such reasonings. He was 



CATHARINE ANN WARFIELD. 19 

a man of mark, though not much beloved — out of his own family circle. 
He wrote also a " geographical " novel. His wife, who was very young 
when left a widow by Colonel Ellis, had borne Major Ware two daughters, 
Catharine and Eleanor ; but at the birth of the latter, family procliv- 
ity inherited from her father declared itself, and the charming, attrac- 
tive young woman never recovered her reason, from the delirium of 
puerperal fever. Major and Mrs. Ware were then living near Natchez. 
There was the loudest expression of sympathy and regret on the part 
of her many friends, by whom Mrs. Ware was greatly beloved, but 
after trying every medical suggestion that the South could afford, 
Major Ware was compelled to take his suffering wife to Philadelphia 
for better advice ; — her two children by her first marriage were 
already there. Her son was at college at Princeton, K". J. ; her 
daughter, Mary Ellis, the wife of Dr. Pene La Roche, of Philadelphia. 

Now the father had to take charge of his two helpless little girls, 
so sadly deprived of their mother's tender care. He was passionately 
devoted to his little daughters, never content to have them away from 
him ; and he did the best he could for them. They had wealth and 
friends, but it was lonely for the little things, wandering about from 
place to place, as their father's wretchedness led him to do, in his 
restless, weary life, — never long separated from the stern, peculiar 
scholar, whom they could not comprehend, except in his intense ten- 
derness and earnest anxiety to bring them up as lovely, refined ladies 
should be educated. 

There was only eighteen months' difference between the sisters ; 
Catharine was the elder, but Eleanor was so bright, so clever, and so 
active, that she always took the lead, wherever they might happen to 
be. They were nearly of one size. Eleanor was a beautiful child ; 
Catharine's face was not so regular in feature, and she had not her 
sister's brilliant complexion. Catharine had the Percy eye, dark-gray 
with black lash ; she was like her mother, dark-haired and brunette. 
Eleanor was a picture to see ; her eyes were as blue as heaven, her 
features statuesque, her hair black, with a purple tinge. Catharine 
was shy, sensitive, easily abashed, and readily provoked to tears — a 
sad, pensive child ; Eleanor was self-reliant, gay, dancing like a sun- 
beam. So Catharine readily yielded the pas to her younger sister, and 
believed more devoutly than any one else in Eleanor's superiority, 
both physical and mental. She retained through life the same feeling 
of homage to her sister, and still believes Eleanor to have been more 



20 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

gifted than herself. These children had a singular training. Their 
father taught them a good deal himself, and he always provided them 
with the best masters, when he would sometimes make a prolonged 
halt in Philadelphia or elsewhere, for the purpose of their better 
instruction. They had a good many strange experiences. Their 
principal governess was a Mrs. Mortimer, an English lady, for whom 
they always expressed great affection. Some winters they spent in 
their native South ; some summers they would be in Florida, some in 
the North. Then Ellen was placed at school at Madame Sigoigne's, in 
Philadelphia. Catharine would not go to school ; she ran away and 
returned to her sister's house, which was only a few squares from the 
school. Madame came soon after in great agitation, in search of 
the truant, but the girl hid herself in a wood-closet, and wept so un- 
restrainedly when discovered, that the dismayed friends had to give 
up the point, and Major Ware had to take her back again to himself. 
He rented a suite of rooms now, and supplied her with books and 
masters. Then he went through a careful course of reading with her 
in English classics and in French ; teaching her to scan English pros- 
ody, and furnishing her, thus, with most invaluable and rare learning. 
Eleanor came to them every Saturday. She learned everything with 
facility ; she played delightfully on her small harp, that her father 
had ordered from Erard, made expressly for her use. She danced 
like a fairy ; talked French like a native. She was a bright, beautiful, 
inevitable child. Catharine shrunk timidly from the world, into 
which, however, she was frequently forced to go. Her elder sister's 
house was the centre of a gay and fashionable circle ; the reunions at 
Madame Sigoigne's and Dr. La Koche's were frequented by the 
most distinguished persons, both native and foreign. Madame Sigoigne, 
an emigree from St. Domingo, was a marchioness of France by birth, 
and at that time there was a very brilliant circle of French exiles in 
and near Philadelphia. All strangers brought letters to her, and to her 
nephew, Dr. La Roche. Mrs. La Roche was a great favorite in this 
circle, and so Catharine and Eleanor were obliged to see much of the 
fashion and gayety of Philadelphia. Eleanor liked it very much ; 
she was always a little queen in society, kind and warm-hearted, gen- 
erous, but tant soit peu capricious, and rather tyrannical, perhaps, over 
her more timid sister. Catharine advised Eleanor. The love between 
these sisters was peculiar and beautiful. They absolutely seemed to 
have but one soul. Their intercourse was as frank and unreserved as 



CATHARINE ANN WAEFIELD. 21 

that of a penitent and father eonfessor. They never had a thought 
or an emotion from each other in all their lives. Their hearts were 
absolutely bare to each other's gaze, — they hid not even weaknesses 
from each other. Nothing could be more perfect than the confidence 
and friendship between them. The oneness of sympathy was won- 
derful. They did everything together. At an early age, they began 
to write little tales and poems together. Catharine married, at an 
early age, Mr. Elisha Warfield, of Lexington, Kentucky. Eleanor 
was necessarily separated a- good deal from her; but they vowed to 
spend at least some months together every year, and they wrote to 
each other nearly every day. We have had some of these letters in 
our hands — some of Eleanor's later letters to her sister ; graphic word- 
pictures, descriptive of thought and every passing shade of feeling. 

Catharine lived a quiet, domestic life, absorbed in the rearing of 
her family of six children, in Lexington, some years, and afterward 
near it, on a farm she purchased for the sake of country air. She 
devoted herself to her children ; her only recreation was in her pen. 
She and Eleanor had always kept up their habit of writing poems and 
other matter. It was instinct with them. Their father, getting pos- 
session of some of their poems, had a volume published in 1845 — 
" Poems by Two Sisters of the West." These were received with some 
favor by the public. Then another volume was published in 1846 — 
"The Indian Chamber, and other Poems." The sisters were gratified 
by the reception of their writings, and had planned out a number of 
tales and poems to be collated, when suddenly Eleanor died at Nat- 
chez, in her thirtieth year. When told by her weeping niece, accord- 
ing to solemn promise made that she would inform her aunt "if 
danger was near," her first words were, " Oh, what a blow for Cath- 
arine!" Her last thoughts, after bidding farewell to her husband and 
her four little children, were for her sister — far away in Lexington. 
She charged her niece and her husband with messages of loving words 
and consolation for Catharine; then gave directions for her funeral, 
received extreme unction from the hands of Bishop Chanche, (the 
family were Roman Catholics,) and died tranquilly. The news of 
Eleanor's death prostrated Catharine, both physically and mentally. 
She was now alone — her elder half-sister, Mrs. La Roche, was dead 
after great suffering — her brother was dead — and now Eleanor. — 
She was frantic in her grief; there never has been any consolation for 



22 LIVING FEMALE WKITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 

her save in the hope of Immortality and the restitution of those whom 
she still loves and longs for. Her father died ! Blow after blow had 
stricken her into the dust. She abandoned even her pen — it " re- 
minded her of Eleanor." Years after her sister's death, her niece, 
who had supported "Eleanor's" dying head upon her bosom, — the eldest 
daughter of her only brother, — visited her. There was much weeping 
and much talking of the beloved dead ; and then the niece opened 
the closed drawer which contained the manuscripts of the two sisters, 
and prevailed upon Catharine to review some of them with her. Thus 
the pen, so long unused, was taken up again, and shortly after, Mrs, 
Warfield published "THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE" — 
one of the most remarkable novels ever written by an American 
woman. It may challenge comparison with any novel, American or 
English, in originality, style, and diction. 

The portrait of Erastus Bouverie is as original and peculiar as that 
of Goethe's Mephistopheles. Indeed, it is only with the works of 
great masters that one can think of comparing this book. It is a 
vain attempt to review it or do justice to its merits in such a brief 
article as this. It is a work that will endure, and will grow in the favor 
of scholars. Of living female authors, we can only class Mrs. War- 
field with George Sand and George Eliot. She holds her pen with 
like mastery; her conceptions are Shakspearean. The only American 
author whom she at all resembles in diction, is Hawthorne. Many 
pages of the "Household of Bouverie" might be interleaved with his 
without detection of difference of style in the writers. It is perhaps a 
fault in this book to have put the " Diary of Camilla " as an appendix. 
It should have been inserted in the body of the book ; — but this 
Diary, in itself, is quite perfect. Mrs. Warfield is always Southern 
in opinion; and so her writings have had sectional prejudice to con- 
tend against. Herself a slave-owner and possessor of large landed 
interests in Texas — birth, instinct, education, sympathy, and interest 
bind her to the fortunes of her own people. She has been unfortunate, 
like all the rest of the South, and has lost very heavily in the recent 
war. Her spirited war-lyrics were frequently on the lips and stirred 
the pulse of the Confederate soldiers. Her love of country, like all 
the rest of her sensations, is a passion. She has no transient nor 
frivolous emotions; there is nothing light or ephemeral about Mrs. 
Warfield. She feels profoundly, or not at all. Matters that fret and 
disturb, or interest lighter natures, do not move her. She passes over 



CATHARINE ANN WARFIELD. 2S 

them with calm, icy indifference. The majority of people bore her ; 
though she is kind to all of God's creatures, few interest her much. 
She lives almost like a recluse. There are a few friends who visit her 
constantly, who esteem it a high privilege to be the recipients of her 
graceful hospitality. She is a very Arab in her ideas of the duties 
connected with bread and salt. But her friends are few; even 1 hey 
are admitted only to intimacy - — never to familiarity. She preserves 
always a certain reserve and decorum of life, if we can phrase it so, in 
speaking of such a very simple and unaffected manner as hers is. 
She is always conscious of her own value in God's universe, in the 
presence of humanity; though she kneels low enough before the 
Creator. This gives her an equipoise and tranquillity of manner, 
which is soothing and full of repose. One feels how strong she is, and 
yet so gentle, — a strong, fertile, tropical nature, never weak, rarely 
cold, always creative, and emanating sensuous vitality at every 
breath. She delights, physically, in light, warmth, and perfumes. The 
temperature of her apartments is kept always at an almost equatorial 
grade of warmth; any but semi-tropical beings would be oppressed by 
such an atmosphere as seems almost absolutely necessary for her exist- 
ence. She is like the Greeks in her detestation of cold and darkness. 
She is very impressible to atmospheric influences — being "akin with 
.Nature." She feels the electricity in the air long before the thunder- 
storm bursts, and suffers until the lightnings flash out and the rain 
breaks through the clouds charged with electric fluid. 

Mrs. Warfield's voice is singularly pleasant in speaking — full, soft, 
low, and vibrating — with a wonderful chromatic scale in its flexible 
tones. The sounds alone compel one's attention ; like the playing of 
an instrument of music, the register and tone are delightful to the ear. 
She reads finely, and one of the greatest pleasures in frank companion- 
ship with her, is a habit she has frequently, in the pauses of conversa- 
tion, of turning to her table, upon which always lies a number of books, 
and taking up a favorite volume, either of prose or poetry, without any 
exordium, beginning to read portions from it, making exquisite com- 
ments and criticisms as she reads. We recall hours spent in that way 
over Praed, Lowell, and others, which were delightful. 

There is freshness, breadth of color, and warmth about her in every- 
thing. She is rather below the medium height, five feet three inches in 
stature, now inclining to embonpoint. Her hands are studies for an 



24 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

artist — very beautiful. Her head is set rather haughtily upon her 
shoulders — she is very erect — and it is rather tossed back as she moves. 
Her head is well shaped, looking larger than it really is, from the heavy 
mass of very black hair, now slightly streaked with gray, which seems 
as if it would bow her head with its weight. She usually wears, in 
spite of this great mass of tresses, a small point, a la Marie Stuart, of 
lace, black or white. Her eyes are dark-gray, shadowed by black 
lashes; her brow is beautiful; nose, straight, fine, and delicate, with 
dilating nostrils. Mouth is large and very mobile, — it is her most 
expressive feature, — but not regularly handsome ; her chin is rather 
heavy, showing strong vitality and physical power, though not 
coarse, nor square. Her appearance is striking and attractive; 
genius is stamped in every lineament, and sorrow too. Her life has 
not been happy, — neither are her writings. She is by nature a dra- 
matist, and a great tragic writer; She is not to be judged by the 
small tastes and petty rules of ordinary minds. She belongs, by birth- 
right, to the highest order of human genius, and has sat at the feet 
of the masters who have sung powerfully of the " guilt, the crimes, 
and the misery of humanity, as well as of the eternal beneficence and 
glorious compassion of God." 

Mrs. Warfield is never commonplace — neither is she always pleas- 
ing. She indulges little in fancy — her imagination is wonderful — 
her pictures sometimes seem to have a lurid glow, and have a strange 
fascination. Though occasionally nearly melo-dramatic, she is never 
extravagant, nor exaggerated, holding her passion in rein always ; this 
belongs to the retinue of her nature. Her flights are always assured 
and steady — one never feels alarmed about them; she sails like an 
eagle — does not skim like a swallow, but will swoop down when she 
is ready, with a perfect precision. She handles her pen always en 
maitre. Her books will bear study and close criticism — they are 
lessons of art ; her periods have that beautiful rhythm which mark3 
the sentences of the noblest writers, and yet she writes with ease; 
there is no effort visible — indeed, there is no effort ever in her 
writings! She writes without exhaustion; frequently without any 
need for review or correction; page after page is traced by her rapid 
pen, and flung aside without further care. She has written all her 
life — so that she does not prepare a book, or has not yet done so, for 
any special publication; — she puts her hand in her drawer of manu- 
scripts, and selects a book, a poem, or a tale, as may be needed. She 



CATHAKINE ANN WAEFIELD, 25 

never sits down to manufacture a book — she writes because she must 
"Genius does what it must, and Talent does what it can." 

We do not think that Mrs. Warfield's power has been fully devel- 
oped to the public — the extent and variety of her pen is yet unknown. 
She has in MSS. volumes equal, if not superior, to the " Household of 
Bouverie," yet entirely dissimilar. Some day they will all be placed 
before the public — then Mrs. Warfield will take her right position in 
the world of letters. 

There is one marked peculiarity in Mrs. Warfield's writings. It is 
their perfect — we will not say purity, for it is a higher quality — it is 
the perfect chastity of mature womanhood. Amour with her is always 
firmly constrained, controlled by womanly modesty, subordinated to 
duty and to womanly pride. The truest, highest, noblest instincts of 
womanhood are those developed in her characters ; she never dispar- 
ages, degrades, or defames her own sex. Her women are not perfec- 
tions ; — they are not icy; — they are sensuous, capable of passion, 
emotional, not above trial or temptation, but they are true and pure. 
The character of Camilla Bouverie teaches the happiest lessons of 
noble womanhood : women ought to become better after receiving 
such an ideal; and so of Miriam Hartz — of Bertie. How different 
this conception of Bertie is from what would have been a French 
conception of a young girl's developing nature. What snow-flakes 
with a rosy flush over them, are those sisters of Bertie, and the mother, 
and Cecelia, and Lilian ! worthy grand-daughter of Camilla Bouverie! 
Only a woman of noblest conceptions and finest instincts could have 
imagined chese characters — a woman who reverenced herself and her 
sex. Even in the heroine of the " Romance of the Green Seal," 
though there seems to have been a shallowness of nature and some 
obliquity of moral sight, the instincts were pure. Mrs. Warfield has 
published no mere love story ; not that she could not have written it 
— her poems have passion enough, — but that she did not choose to 
write it, and her taste shrinks from exposure and flaring analysis of 
a passion she believes congruous only with youth. Dreams are over 
with her; — the experiences of life have been very sad and very 
bitter. 

" Beauseincourt " was suggested by some incidents which occurred 
during a visit to Florida, in Mrs. Warfield's early childhood, which 
made a deep impression on her susceptible nature. The character of 
Marcelline is drawn from actual fact, as well as the fearful death of 



26 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Colonel La Yigne — even to the having his eye picked out by vultures, 
as he lay dead three days in the swamp. Eleanor had intended 
making this story up into form, and it was rather a fond fancy 
upon her sister's part, which induced her to do it, after Eleanor's 
death. 

Mrs. "Warfield has a volume of " Tales of the Weird and "Wonder- 
ful," written by her sister and herself — in manuscript, which are very 
remarkable. Her own tale of " The Planet Lustra" will compare 
with anything of E. A. Poe's, in imaginative power ; and her sister's 
" Tale of the Pearl-Trader" is very beautiful. We hope Mrs. War- 
field may be induced to print these stories. Another novel, called 
" Angoisse," is very fine ; and another called " Hester Howard's 
Temptation" interested us deeply. She has also a novel in verse, 
nearly finished, in the style of " Aurora Leigh." She has written 
numbers of tales, sketches, poems ; some have been printed in news- 
papers, magazines, etc., and many she has still in manuscript. 

Mrs. Warfield has been reproached for presenting such analyses of 
crime and criminals, as she has seemed to prefer as studies of art, in 
her two published novels. If we had the space, we would copy fairly 
and reiterate what Bulwer has already so well said in his " Word to 
the Public " written as an appendix to his " Lucretia." 

" Thus it will be perceived that in all the classic, tragic, prose-pictures, 
preceding our own age, criminals have afforded the prominent characters, 
and crime the essential material. 

" The tragic fiction is conceived — it has taken growth — it may be des- 
tined, amid the comparative neglect of the stage, to supply the lessons which 
the tragic drama has, for a while, abandoned. Do not fetter its wanderings 
from free search after truth through the mazes of society, and amid all the 
contrasts of nature. If it is to be a voice to the heart, an interpreter of the 
secrets of life, you cannot withhold from it the broadest experience of the 
struggle between good and evil, happiness and woe. 

" ' Hunc igitur terrorem animi, tone brasque necesse est.' 

"Terror and, compassion are the sources of the tragic writer's effects; the 
destructive or pernicious power of intellect corrupted into guilt, affords him 
the natural means of creating terror for the evil, and compassion for its 
victims." 

Thus argues one of the great masters of modern fiction, — and, 
reasoning from his premises, one can recognize great moral teachings 
in the incidents which cluster around Erastus Bouverie, and Prosper 
La Vigne. Intellect without moral goodness is nothing worth, — a 



CATHARINE ANN WAKFIELD. 27 

love all selfish is a blasting fire, baleful to itself and all within the 
circle of its influence. Is there no lesson taught in that portrait 
sketched in with Occagna-like power, of that brilliant, bad, selfish 
man, Erastus Bouverie ? 

Is there not a Brahminical love of life in all its forms, and a stern 
reiteration of the cry against Cain — in Prosper La Vigne's story ? 
Those books teach morals that underlie all humanity and teach the 
lessons grandly, if not charmingly. 

Mrs. Warfield can sing syrens' songs when she chooses. In these 
two books she has preferred to strike in men's ears, the startling clang 
of the iron fasces of the Lictors leading the way into the Hall of 
Judgment. 

" Beauseincourt " is her latest publication, — that book is simply 
an episode of a larger work, entitled, originally, " The retrospect 
of Miriam Montfort," which was considered too long for the Press 
— and therefore mutilated by having the beginning and the end 
summarily cut off. Mrs. Warfield intended to work these fragments 
up into another volume, but we doubt whether her failing health will 
permit her to carry out this infusorial scheme. We have read the 
work, as it was originally composed, and have no hesitation in saying, 
that Mrs. Warfield did herself great injustice in this decapitation of 
her book. She composes usually in the form of the English three- 
volume novel ; the truth is, she is not American, either in her genius, 
tastes, or knowledge of literature. She is neither fast nor superficial ; 
sensations she is, because she is dramatic by nature, and is a Poet 
writing prose. Like Goethe, with her every emotion, every incident 
finds its vent in rhyme ; and to one whom she honors sufficiently to 
allow of entrance into her inner life, the glancing over her books of 
MSS. poems is a revelation of her entire life. It is very probable that 
the 7 extent of her ability may never be known during her mortal life. 
" They learn in suffering what they teach in song," — and at her door 
the god of silence stands ever with his finger on his lip ; honored and 
worshipped, no irreverent hand will be allowed to lift the veil which 
falls before the inner life. 

It is very unjust to such a writer as Mrs. Warfield, to attempt to 
give any idea of her powers by cutting out a paragraph, or an occa- 
sional poem, and setting it at the end of such an article as this, — and 
I refuse to do it. " In all good works," Buskin says, " Every part is 
connected, so that any single portion is imperfect when isolated." This 



28 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

is just the case here — one knows not what, or where to choose. In 
this Abyssinian butchery of cutting a steak from a living animal, and 
holding it up as a sample of meat, we feel more inclined to take what 
comes first to hand. Mrs. Warfield excels in descriptions of storms. 
The storm in "Beauseincourt," page 94, is very fine; and the storm 
on the lake, in her little tale dubbed by the publisher "The Romance 
of the Green Seal," (a name reminding one involuntarily of cham- 
pagne wine,) is very remarkable. 

"All human work is necessarily imperfect," * and our friend is only 
human. Her life has not been gay — her books are sad. She has 
lived too much out of the world. In this day a writer must study 
men, as well as books — a woman's life is necessarily limited, and a 
wounded heart seeks quiet and isolation. If Mrs. Warfield had the 
large experience of cities and men that "George Sand" and "George 
Eliot" have had, she would write with them. As it is, her genius is 
sometimes morbid, but it is always — genius. Her war-songs can be 
read in the collection of " Southern Poems of the War," made by her 
friend, Miss Emily V. Mason. 

Mrs. Warfield resides on a farm in Peewee Valley, near Louisville, 
Kentucky. 

June, 1868. f 

ELIZA A. DUPUY. 

MISS DUPUY, perhaps one of the most widely known of the 
authors of the South, is the descendant of that Colonel Dupuy 
who led the band of Huguenot exiles to the banks of James River. 
Colonel Dupuy's grave is still exhibited in the old church whose 
ruins consecrate the ancient site of Jamestown. Her maternal grand- 
father was Captain Joel Sturdevant, who raised a company at his own 
expense, and fought gallantly throughout the war of the Revolution. 
Miss Dupuy is also related by blood to the Watkins family of Virginia. 
One of her best novels is founded on the story of "The Hugue- 
not Exiles ; " many of the incidents therein are drawn from family 
tradition. Miss Dupuy was born in Petersburg, Va. / After the death 
of her father, her family experienced heavy reverses of fortune, and 
this girl, then a handsome, stately, dark-haired maiden, with a spirit 

* Ruskin. 



ELIZA A. DUPUY. 29 

worthy_-of-her- lineage, stepped boldly forward to aid in the support of 
her younger brother and sister. She was competent to teach. She 
became a governess in the family of Mr. Thomas G. Ellis, of Natchez, 
where she had charge of the education of his daughter, now known 
as the author of several books, publishing under the name of " Filia." 
Miss Dupuy found a pleasant home here, where she was thrown con- 
tinually into the society of such women as Eleanor and Catherine Ware, 
and such men as S. S. Prentiss, John Ross, Boyd, and Biugaman. 
Natchez at that time boasted a brilliant circle of wit and intellect, 
and the handsome young governess, with her dignified reserve and 
noble pride, was one of its ornaments. Miss Dupuy began to write 
very early. While at Natchez she wrote the " Conspirator," and read 
it aloud to her little circle of friends and admirers. Eleanor Ware 
and she used to have grand literary symposiums, where they would 
read their productions to each other and to gentle Mrs. Ellis, who 
sympathized warmly in their tastes, and little "Filia" would often 
hide in a corner to listen. 

With some difficulty Miss Dupuy succeeded in getting her "Con- 
spirator" published. It is a story of the conspiracy of Aaron 
Burr. It was successful — over 25,000 copies of this novel have been 
sold. She now devoted much of her time to writing, and gradually 
was enabled to give up the irksome confinement of a teacher's life. 
She taught after this in a " Country Neighborhood," near Natchez, 
where she wrote her novel of that name. She has written constantly 
ever since. She was unfortunate in the failure of her publisher and 
the consequent loss of her copyrights, which would have supplied her 
now with a handsome income./ She has always been wonderfully 
industrious, a patient worker, and very exacting of herself. She 
labors usually about four hours every morning, and her MSS. are only 
corrected when sent to the printer. Her physical health has been firm 
and vigorous, else she could never have endured such a drain upon 
her mental powers. She is a tall, large, nobly developed woman, 
with healthy nerves — mens sana in corpore sano. She has always 
been calm, firm, simple, but reticent in nature and deportment, — a 
woman everywhere respected and often much beloved. She has pre- 
served her friends through life unchanged. She is a friend in the rainy 
days of existence as well as in sunshine — immaculate, pure, high- 
principled and companionable ; her features are large and well moulded, 
Greek in outline ; her eyes blue ; and her hair, which was very abun- 



30 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

dant in early womanhood, rippling and satiny, fell in ebon waves, a 
Hood of tresses, below her knee. She wore it usually in a broad, 
heavy braid around her head, like a diadem, while a multitude of 
ringlets streamed over her cheeks ; the crown of hair a coiffure not 
unsuited to her large head and stately frame. She moves softly and 
tranquilly, but decidedly. Her voice is sweet and pleasing in tone, 
but distinct and clear in its low articulation. She has been engaged 
for several years past in writing for Bonner's "Ledger." She is bound 
by contract to furnish Mr. Bonner with a thousand pages annually. 
She is really a litterateur by profession, and an honest and faithful 
one. In consequence, she improves in her writings. She is faithful 
to her art. Her recent novel of " The Evil Genius," furnished to the 
Ledger, is regarded by many persons as the best of her numerous 
writings. It is very difficult to make a selection from such abundant 
material, and scarcely necessary, as Miss Dupuy's novels are so gen- 
erally popular. 

She resides now at Flemingsburg, Kentucky. 

She says, in a letter to a friend, these remarkable words, in answer 
to a question : "As a Southern woman, I would sooner have thrust 
my hand in a blazing fire, as the Roman youth did, than have taken a 
pen in it, to throw discredit on my own people." 

None who ever knew her intimately, could conceive of Miss Dupuy's 
failing in any duty, toward God, or friends, or country. 

The following is a list of the novels furnished to the "New York 
Ledger " : " The Lost Deeds," " Mysterious Marriage," " White Ter- 
ror," "Outlaw's Bride," "Life Curse," "Warning Voice," "Secret 
Chamber," " Family Secret," " Lady of Ashhurst," " Fatal Error," 
"Eril Genius," and "The Dead Heart;" and she has published in 
book-form, — " Merton ; a Tale of the Revolution," " The Conspirator," 
"Emma Walton, or Trials and Triumphs," "The Country Neighbor- 
hood," " Celeste, or The Pirate's Daughter," " The Separation," " The 
Divorce," " The Coquette's Punishment," " Florence, or The Fatal 
Vow," " The Concealed Treasure," " Ashleigh," " The Planter's Daugh- 
ter," and " The Huguenot Exiles." 

October, 1868. 



ELIZA A. DTJPUY. 31 

THE DAGUERREOTYPE FEOM THE DEAD MAN'S EYE. 

One bright morning, toward the close of September, Arden strolled to a 
nook, a mile above the fall, filled with rocks and water-plants; and he 
became so absorbed in transferring them to his sketch-book, that time passed 
insensibly on. The hours from dawn till eleven he reserved to the claims of 
his art ; the remainder of the day was devoted to other less entrancing labors. 
It was his usual custom to bring with him a basket containing his frugal 
breakfast, but this morning he had forgotten it, and toward ten o'clock he 
discovered that he was very hungry. Reluctantly closing his portfolio, he 
turned his loitering steps toward the cottage, pausing every few moments to 
catch some new beauty in the flitting shades of light upon the hill-sides. 

Suddenly there was a noise — a trembling of the earth around, and frag- 
ments of glass and wood were thrown into the air. One wild glance showed 
him that the domed roof was blown from the cottage, and, casting down all 
that impeded his steps, he ran with wild speed toward the scene of the dis- 
aster. But he was half a mile distant, and many moments elapsed before he 
reached the entrance of the cottage. Swiftly passing through the hall, he 
found the door which separated Carlyle's laboratory room from the body of 
the house, thrown from its- hinges, and with inexpressible anguish he saw his 
cousin lying amid the wrecks of his apparatus, utterly lifeless. To raise him 
up, scan his lineaments, and sink down in utter hopelessness, was the work 
of a moment ; for he who had studied every phase of death as an artist, saw 
its unmistakable impress upon the features of the fallen man. Yet there 
was an expression of resistance and anguish upon them, which forbade the 
idea that he had perished from the effects of the explosion. 

In his wUd agony, Arden called loudly on Carlyle's name; but, alas! on 
earth he would never more respond to that call. He lifted him up, and 
placed him upon a large chair; as he did so, he saw, with dilating eyes, that 
a stream of blood welled slowly from his throat. A brief examination 
satisfied him that his cousin had not perished from the explosion, but that a 
sharp weapon had severed the jugular vein at one blow. Then he knew that 
be had been murdered, and a sickening sense of self-accusation overcame 
him. He had brought him there, in spite of all the warnings which should 
have turned him from his purpose. A sudden tremor came over him, and 
cold drops gathered on his brow ; for he remembered that he had lured his 
kinsman to that lonely spot ; he was next heir to property which many 
thought had been unjustly bestowed upon Carlyle to his own injury ; they 
were alone in the house, and he might be accused of having compassed his 
death. 

He looked wildly around for help. His eyes fell upon the box containing 
the plates which Carlyle had shown him a short time before. Their conver- 
sation flashed upon his mind ; and he rushed to his own room, to remove the 
instrument with which he took daguerreotypes, in the faint hope that he 
might gain a clue to the murderer, by taking a picture of the eye of the dead 



32 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

man. Those orbs which scarcely yet had begun to glaze in death, might be 
made to shadow forth the form on which they had last gazed, and thus reveal 
the dread secret of his tragic fate. 

With incredible speed, Arden placed the lens at the proper focus, took the 
prepared plate, and adjusted the figure of the dead man. The light from 
above fell upon the ghastly form, with the life-stream slowly welling over the 
snowy linen of his shirt-bosom, and he could have cried aloud in the agony 
of his soul at that fearful sight ; but this was no time to give way to emotion ; 
he must to work to save himself from the foulest suspicion that ever darkened 
the fame of a man. Magnifying the eye to its utmost extent, with trembling 
hands, he closed the aperture, and awaited the result. Twenty was counted 
more from the rapid pulsations of his heart, than from any effort of his own, 
and he removed the plate. 

Excited as he was, he submitted the picture to the usual chemical tests with 
extreme care, though he scarcely hoped for any successful result to the ex- 
periment. It was alone suggested by the desperate circumstances in which 
he was placed, and with feverish doubt he watched the lines as they appeared 
upon the highly polished surface. To his unbounded amazement, the eye 
was delineated bold and clear, and upon the surface of the retina was visible 
a distinctly outlined head ! Using a powerful magnifying glass, he saw that 
it was the face of a young and singularly lovely girl, with heavy braids of 
hair falling low upon her cheeks. The large eyes were filled with mingled 
compassion and terror, and the half parted lips expressed the extremity of 
horror. 

Arden gazed in amazement and incredulity, though he held before his eyes 
the mute evidence of his skill ; here was a nearly perfect picture of a creature 
so lovely that under other circumstances his artist soul would have bowed 
before her as the realization of his fairest ideal of woman. Could this crea- 
ture indeed have dealt the fatal blow which deprived his kinsman of life ? 
Could nature create a being so fair, and yet deny those finer impulses which 
should move one of such perfect mould ? But if she had not committed the 
deed, why was she here, why should her lovely face have been the last object 
on which the eyes of the dead man rested ? 

While this scene progressed, Arden was so intensely excited that he was 
unconscious that others had reached the scene of action, and were watching 
his movements with intense eagerness. As he first turned the head toward 
the light, three persons entered the apartment ; they uttered exclamations of 
surprise and horror at the terrible scene which met their view, they gazed 
with him on the fair image he had so wonderfully obtained, but the pre- 
occupied artist was unconscious of it all. If they touched him, he shook of 
their grasp, but gave no heed to them, — when they questioned him, he heard 
them not. His senses seemed frozen into unconsciousness by the awful shock 
his nervous system had received. But one idea possessed him : to gain a 
clue to this mysterious deed, for which he, in all probability, would be held 
accountable. 



ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY. 

ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY was born Rosa Vertner Griffith. 
Her father, John Griffith, lived near Natchez, was a man of 
elegant culture, and wrote very pretty little tales and poems, many of 
his Indian stories having been published in the first-class Annuals, 
years ago, and several of them highly complimented in England, 
(" The Fawn's Leap," and " Indian Bride," were quite celebrated.) 

Rosa inherits her talents from him ; his brother, Wm. T. Griffith, 
was one of the most eminent lawyers at the bar of Mississippi, in his 
day. All of the Griffiths are gifted, having graceful manners — were 
charming people. "Rosa" is a granddaughter of Rev. Dr. James 
Abercrombie, whose memory is highly revered in Philadelphia, and 
indeed throughout the United States, as an Episcopal minister. Her 
mother, who was a Miss Abercrombie, was beautiful and accomplished, 
but died early, leaving four little children ; and it was then that Rosa's 
maternal aunt, Mrs. Vertner, adopted her, and was all that an own 
mother could be. Her early childhood was passed at a beautiful 
country place near Port Gibson, Miss., called "Burlington," and 
owned by her adopted father. She loved that home as she has never 
loved another, " for the attachments of imaginative children to local- 
ities are stronger than those formed in after-life." Some idea of her 
attachment to that lovely spot may be formed by the perusal of her 
beautiful poem, "My Childhood's Homer When only ten years of 
age, she was taken to Kentucky for the purpose of completing her 
education, and the parting from " Burlington " was her first sorrow. 
She was educated at the seminary of Bishop Smith, at Lexington, Ky. ; 
was married, at the early age of seventeen, to Claude M. Johnson, a 
geutleman of elegant fortune. 

A friend of Rosa from childhood, says : " Rosa was one of the most 
beautiful women, physically, that I ever knew ; her head and face were 
perfect as a Greek Hebe. She is large and full, with magnificent bust 
and arms ; eyes, real violet-blue ; mouth, exquisite, with the reddest 
lips; and perfect features; her hair, dark-brown, glossy, curliug and 
waving over a nobly proportioned brow. She is bright, gay, joyous, 
and perfectly unaffected in manner, full of fun and even practical 
jokes, and with the merriest laugh." Such was Rosa the girl. 
5 83 



34 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

After the death of Mr. Johnson, leaving her with four children, she 
resided with her adopted parents until her marriage to Alexander 
Jeffrey, Esq., a native of Edinburgh, Scotland. 

In 1850, under the signature of " Rosa," she became a contributor 
to the " Louisville Journal," of which Geo. D. Prentice was editor. 
A great number of her poems appeared in this journal, although from 
time to time she contributed to the principal literary journals of the 
country. In 1857, her poems were published in a volume by Ticknor 
& Fields, Boston, and elicited from the press throughout the country 
the warmest tributes of praise. 

The following pretty complimentary notice of " Poems by Rosa," 
was written by the lamented hero-poet, Theodore O'Hara: — 

" If in the general distribution of blessings, Providence has been impar- 
tial, and so bestowed its favors as to equalize the condition of human beings, 
there are instances in which exceptions seem to occur that utterly overthrow 
the idea of universal equity. The author of these exquisite lyrical gems fur- 
nishes an example in point. Young, beautiful, accomplished, with every en- 
joyment which health can covet, or admiration afford, or fortune procure, she 
might have been denied, without injustice, those brilliant gifts which often 
alleviate the ills of poverty, or light the darkness of misfortune. But Nature, 
as if to illustrate the munificence of her bounty, and signalize the object of her 
favor by a prodigality of blessings, has bestowed upon Mrs. Johnson, in ad- 
dition to great personal beauty, gentleness of disposition, vast fortune, and 
: all the joys of domestic life, the lofty attributes of genius. We have read 
this volume with the deepest pleasure. There is scarcely a line which does 
not breathe the inspiration of true poetry. There is no pretension, no 
straining after effect, no stilted phraseology, seeking in its pompous flow to 
dignify, by mere word-draping, trivial commonplace impressions, but a gen- 
mine outpouring of that exquisite sensibility which gives to the occurrences 
of daily life the fascination of romance. We have seldom seen developed in 
a higher degree that subtile power which clothes with a mantle of tenderness 
and beauty every object which it touches. Memory and imagination mingle 
their trophies in the lovely pictures which she paints ; and so faultless is the 
skill with which they are blended, that some of these poems seem an exquis- 
ite tissue of interwoven light and shade. The style is easy and glowing, the 
language chosen with scrupulous taste, — or rather not chosen at all, for it 
seems to be but an atmosphere of the thoughts which it envelops, — the 
imagery is striking and appropriate, and always perfect in its analogies ; the 
sentiment tender and noble, reflecting in beautiful harmony the radiance of 
intellect with the cheering warmth of true womanly feeling. 

" Among the poems which specially excited our admiration we may mention 
' The Sunset City,' which is one of the most magnificent specimens of de- 



ROSA VERTNEE JEFFREY. 35 

scriptive poetry we have ever read. Every line seems to glow with brilliant 
gems, and over all is thrown a gorgeous emblazonry of fancy which dazzles 
and deludes the mind by its sparkling splendor. ' The First Eclipse ; is a 
poem in blank verse, of greater length and of much higher order. In it, the 
author conceives and describes the lofty mission of science, its noble elevation 
above the commoner pursuits of life, its glorious achievements and rewards, 
although the instrument by which its triumphs were accomplished may pass 
unnoted from the memory of men. The crowning jewel of the casket is 
'The Frozen Ship.' f This beautiful story exhibits the highest order of 
poetic merit. The argument is most happily conceived, the surroundings 
are all grouped with perfect propriety, and the gradual evolution of the de- 
nouement is most artistically wrought. The piece abounds in graphic, life- 
like descriptions, in delicate tenderness of expression and exquisite beauty 
of sentiment. . . . 

" In perusing these poems and contemplating their countless infinity of 
gems, we lose the power to discriminate in the general and dazzling impres- 
sion of their brilliancy, like the Chaldee shepherd, who has gazed upon the 
starry splendors of the firmament till his overpowered vision can distinguish 
but one unbroken sheen of glory." 

In the spring of 1864, Mrs. Jeffrey published, through Sheldon & 
Co.. New York, a novel entitled " Woodburn," of which we give the 
following review. 

(From the "Louisville Journal") 

" Woodbtten : A Novel. — Several weeks ago, in announcing this work 
as forthcoming, we said : 

" ' Where its scene is laid, or what its plot is, or who is its hero or heroine, 
are points upon which the public as yet have received no inkling ; but those 
who are acquainted with the genius and taste of the fair authoress must feel 
assured, that, in respect to the scene and plot, as well as in all other respects, 
the production will be brimful of charm. Her legion of admirers feel a 
world of curiosity respecting the work, but no solicitude. They confide im- 
plicitly, as they well may, in her rare and beautiful powers.' 

" We are now able to say that this implicit confidence was not misplaced. 
It has been nobly justified : Woodburn, in respect to the scene and plot, as 
well as in all other respects, is indeed brimful of charm. In support of this 
judgment, we beg to adduce the following notice from the Hartford Courant, 
which is one of many favorable notices that we might cite, and which throws 
quite as much light on the scene and plot and principal characters, as we 
think a person who has not read the novel is entitled to receive. 

" ' It is refreshing to meet, in these days of the sensational Braddon-Wood 
school of fiction, a story possessing so much real ability as " Woodburn." 
The scenes are, for the most part, laid at the South ; and the many fine pic- 
tures of its sunny landscapes, with which the book abounds, relieve the 



36 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

intense interest of the story. Most of the characters are drawn with great 
cleverness, and a few in such clear outlines that we feel assured we have met 
them in real life. The hero and heroine, Mr. Clifford and Ethel Linton, are 
fine characters. Both possess the noblest qualities of mind and heart, and 
the reader will be in love with them from the first. The villain of the story, 
who bears the harsh-sounding name of Basil Thorn, is a real villain. For 
unmitigated scoundrelism and remorseless hatred it would be hard to match 
him. His miserable death in the woods is a relief to us. Rachel Thorn, a 
sort of Becky Sharp, but without Becky's triumphs, is a powerfully drawn 
character. One of the best personages in the book is the narrator herself, 
Amy Percy — bright , shrewd, honest — a girl who, disappointed in her first 
love, doesn't believe in breaking her heart therefor. The plot is ably 
managed, and the secret that hangs about Doctor Foster and the maniac, is 
so skilfully concealed until the denouement, that it is impossible to guess at 
it. There is much acuteness displayed in many of the author's reflections 
and observations. Her style is clear, compact, and animated, and with occa- 
sional exuberance reminding us of Miss Prescott. " Woodburn " will add 
largely to Mrs. Jeffrey's fame, and in the difficult field of fiction-writing she 
will take high rank.' 

"This is very high praise, but not too high. It is rather below than 
above the merits of 'Woodburn.' The fascination of the story is complete. 
No reader who crosses the threshold will pause short of the recesses which 
enshrine the mystery. ISTor is the style unworthy of the story. On the con- 
trary, the story blazes in the style like a gem in its setting. ' Woodburn ' is 
a success. Considered as a first effort in the field of fiction, it is a brilliant 
success." 

Here is a word-picture of the heroine : — 

. " Ethel Linton was the most superb beauty I ever saw. At that time past 
the bloom of early youth, being twenty-five, yet her loveliness had ripened — 
matured — losing not freshness, yet gaining depth and tenderness of expres- 
sion, in its growth to full perfection. She was tall and elegantly formed, — 
a wavy, graceful figure, yet so round, there were no harsh angles there to mar 
its stately symmetry ; fair, very fair, with large, lustrous hazel eyes, into whose 
clear depths you might gaze long and earnestly, and while gazing, feel as well 
assured that the soul within was a temple of purity and truth, as in watching 
the stars, we know those blue steeps which they adorn are boundary-lines to 
a world of angels. The features were regular, yet not with the severe per- 
fection of a Grecian statue. And it was the ever-changing lights and shades 
of expression, that constituted Ethel's chief attraction ; — the glow, the beam 
of intellect, the bewitching smiles or laugh of gayety — at times almost 
childish in its ringing merriment, and then, a shadow of mournfulness flit- 
ting over her face, eclipsing its light like wreaths of purple vapor, that some- 
times start suddenly across the glory of a summer sky, breaking into shim- 
mering gleams the glow of sunshine on some enchanting landscape, yet 



EOS A VEKTNEE JEFFREY. 37 

shading it so softly, so dreamily, that we know not which to deem most lovely, 
the living picture bathed in light, or shadowed by its veil of purple cloud. 
My sister's hair was her crowning beauty. Golden-brown, silky, and abun- 
dant, it rippled in shining waves over her white brow, and, braided into a 
mass at the back of her regal head, shone like a halo — illuminating her 
whole form." 

Here is a beautiful stroke of pathos : 

" Still, Cecil Clare continued to preach — Sunday after Sunday rising up 
with that white, still face, whose very calmness told a tale of fearful, inward 
struggle ; and once, when the prayers of the congregation were requested for 
Pearl, (when the fever was at its height,) his voice grew so low and tremulous, 
we knew that it swept over a well of unshed tears, like the sad wailing wind 
of Autumn, when through some lone valley it comes, with a sobbing sound, 
drearily sweeping over deep, still waters." 

And here are acute reflections : 

" Poor, dear, beautiful Ethel ! — if they could only have met before her first 
miserable marriage ! Yet when I suggested this to Cecil Clare the other day, 
he looked very grave, and said : ' Don't suppose, because events are contrary 
to what our feeble judgment may deem best, that it is so, or that we could 
better the order of things by arranging them to suit ourselves ; for, by cul- 
tivating such 'noughts, we put our little mite of earthly wisdom up in oppo- 
sition to that Almighty One who never has erred and never can err. Had 
your cousin met Mr. Clifford in her early youth, they might not have been 
congenial in disposition and temper, as they now appear to be, for she has 
doubtless been softened and strengthened by early trials ; and, though we 
know nothing of his history, there is a sad, firm, calm look about Mr. Clifford, 
which indicates that he has borne some heavy weight of sorrow patiently, 
and met reverse of fortune bravely as a man — resignedly as a Christian. 
Perhaps they both needed this to make them what they now are, and (if 
destined for each other) it is far better they never met until now ; for God 
orders all things well. Suppose you, or I, or any other human being, had 
the government and direction of everything, even on this little globe of ours 
(to say nothing of the boundless universe) for one day, how would it end? 
In misery, confusion, and ruin. Let us not then presume, in the weakness 
of human folly, to doubt the wisdom of God.' " 

Mrs. Jeffrey has several novels in MS., and a poem which she thinks 
possesses more merit than anything she ever wrote, entitled "Florence 
Vale." Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfmger, Philadelphia, publish in the 
winter of 1870, "Daisy Dare, and Baby Power," a poem illustrated. 

Mrs. Jeffrey's residence is Lexington, Kentucky. 
October, 1S70. 



38 LIVING FEMALE W BITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

EXTKACTS FEOM "FLOBENCE VALE."* 

I have been blest, — so fully blest — that, basking in the light 

Of purple joy — grief was to me like a wild stormy night 

To those who sweep silk curtains back, and watch the shut-out gloom 

Amid the rosy atmosphere of a luxurious room. 

I knew that death was in the world, and woe, and bitterness, 
But — insolent in happiness — I thought of sorrow less 
Than children think of cold, who gaze on painted polar seas 
'Mid Syrian roses — 'neath the shade of balmy citron-trees. 

And when it came — Heaven dealt the blow with an unsparing hand: 
I dreamed in Eden ; to awake 'mid wastes of burning sand. 
Life's dreary waste, which 'neath a load of hate, I 've wandered through 
Weary, as 'neath his Saviour's curse, speeds on the " Wandering Jew." 

As scattered graves, that dot with gloom the eastern traveller's way, 
So grief and pain do sadly mark life's high-road as we stray ; 
And for that time has Memory raised an altar of regret, 
Among the joys, along my path, like golden mile-stones set. 

A glorious type of womanhood, whose very waywardness 
Beguiled my lips ere they could chide, to smile on her bliss. 
A nature with no hidden shoals, but clear as waves that show 
To mariners, through crystal deeps, the coral-reefs below ! 

I hate, aye, loathe, the very thought, that Love's blest name is given 
To passions scarce more like to it than Hell is like to Heaven. 
By one, the feelings are refined, as streams are purified 
In sparry caves, or shining sands, through which they ofttimes glide. 

The other is like some foul spring, where (lured by thirst) we drink, 
To find a noxious, burning tide, with ashes on its brink, 
And lo! it doth pollute the soul, as erst the God-cursed Nile 
With waves of blood the sunny lands of Egypt did defile. 

And from that time, above the wreck of hopes so bright and blest, 
Within my heart revengeful hate upreared his snaky crest, 
And on each tender, prayerful thought a foul pollution shed, 
Like blood upon a battle-field, staining the daisies red. 

* These extracts are taken at random from the MSB. poem. 



AGNES LEONARD. 

THIS lady was born in Louisville, Kentucky. She is a daughter 
of Dr. O. L. Leonard, celebrated as a "mathematician." He 
practised medicine in the city of Louisville for many years ; yet, de- 
sirous of giving his children the best possible educational advantages 
under his direct supervision, he gave up his practice as a physician, 
and took charge of the Masonic College, at La Grange, Ky., and was 
afterward President of the Henry Female College, at New Castle, Ky. 
At the age of thirteen, Agnes began to write for the press. Her first 
article was a short effort at versification, which was published in the 
Louisville "Journal," and noticed by George D. Prentice, the god- 
father of so many Southern writers, as follows : 

"A young girl, twelve years of age, sends us a piece of poetry, written 
when she was only ten. Though hardly worthy to be published, it indicates 
the existence of a bud of genius, which, properly cultivated, will expand 
into a glorious flower." 

Since thL debut, Miss Leonard has written almost constantly, under 
the nom de plume of "Mollie Myrtle," but of late years under her own 
name. In 1863 a collection of her earlier efforts appeared in book- 
form, under the title of " Myrtle Blossoms." There was nothing un- 
usual in the volume, the merit being of a negative order. Some of 
the poems were very good ; one critic saying : " These poems are so 
harmonious, as almost to set themselves to music." 

Miss Leonard's mother died when she was a small child, and her 
father remaining unmarried, and very indulgent, Miss Agnes led a 
roving, gypsying sort of life, following her own inclinations, and 
studying persons rather than books. 

Miss Leonard contributed to the Chicago "Sunday Times," in 1867, 
a series of articles, entitled "Men, Women, and Beasts," and also 
contributed regularly to the "Sunday Tribune" of said city, and the 
Louisville "Sunday Courier." Carleton & Co., of New York, pub- 
lished in 1867 a novel from her pen, entitled "Vanquished," which is 
to be followed by a sequel, under title of "Philip Arion's Wife." 

Miss Leonard's personnel is thus sketched by a prominent author of 
our Southern country : 

39 



40 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

"I can bring her very distinctly before my 'mind's eye,' in her tall and 
slender grace. She is youthful in appearance and in reality, and possesses 
a face almost as perfect as a Greek bas-relief, and full of power and passion, 
with capabilities both of sweetness and satire. Her conversational powers 
are brilliant, yet tinged with melancholy, which some might mistake for bit- 
terness. Sensibility and pride are the two distinctive expressions of her fea- 
tures ; and like many enthusiasts, she has found the world she lives in but 
' Dead-Sea apples ' to the taste. In some of her essays there is deeper pathos 
and keener wit than are to be met with in her pleasing novel, ' Vanquished.' 
The poem, 'Angel of Sleep,' is full of singular abandon and beauty." 

From the numerous notices of "Vanquished," I make extracts from 
a candid review that appeared in the "Chicago Tribune": 

"'Vanquished' may be considered Miss Leonard's first sustained work, 
and her real debut before the literary world at large. It is not a gracious task 
at any time to criticise the first effort of a debutante in any department of art, 
and it is especially ungracious in literature ; but a very candid perusal of 
'Vanquished' has convinced us that, while the debut may not be a success 
of enthusiasm, it is a success far more pronounced and positive than that 
achieved by the majority of young writers of fiction, and that she has secured 
a position with her first book which she may make permanent for the future, 
by the exercise of the increased skill in construction, and the power of con- 
densation which experience will give to her. 

"The story of 'Vanquished,' concisely stated, is the struggle of life, — the 
conflict which is fought on each individual battle-ground between inclination 
and duty. The ground- work of the story has been skilfully laid. The char- 
acters are introduced in quick succession, and many of them are drawn with 
a faithfulness and distinctness of outline which stamps them at once as por- 
traits. Her characters all bear the impress of probability, without a trace 
of the exaggerated, high tragic, and melo-dramatic tone which pertains to 
most of the heroes and heroines of latter-day fiction. Some of them, such 
as the cynical Rashton, Dr. Kent, the inquisitive Mr. Bagshaw, and his 
homely but delightfully domestic wife ; Philip Arion, the minister ; Bernice 
Kent, who is the real heroine of the story, and Olive, are complete and har- 
monious in their portraiture, and never lose their identity. There are others, 
such as Oswald Kent, Aurelia, his sister, and the Brainards, who are con- 
nected with every phase of the story, and yet are very imperfectly sketched. 
Still others, introduced as accessories, having no relation to the general 
movement of the story, such as the Murdlains, the Bonnivets, the Mortimer 
Browns, the Melbournes, and others, are very happy instances of character 
painting, with a very few touches of the brush. A few illustrations of this 
will explain what we mean. George Bonnivet was the kind of man that a 
certain class of women prey upon remorselessly, tormenting the poor fellow 
to death, and then bestowing any amount of posthumous praise upon the 



AGXES LEONAED. 41 

victim's memory, wearing their widow's weeds complacently, and declaring 
that ' he was the best of men.' John Meggs, whose standard of perfection 
was apple-pie, and saw 'apple-pie personified in Miss Leila;' Mr. Lyons, 
who was ' a mature young man of twenty-five,' or ' a youthfully disposed per- 
son of forty, it was doubtful which;' Mrs. Murdlain, without whom 'Murd- 
lain was a cipher ; with her, their representation of society was not to be 
scorned. Mr. Murdlain, minus Mrs. Murdlain, was nothing. Mr. Murd- 
lain, plus Mrs. Murdlain, was the first member of an equation, to be finished 
with immensity.' 

" The movement of the story is kept well in hand, and the real denouement, 
the relation between Olive and Dr. Eashton, is very skilfully concealed until 
the proper moment. The most acute reader would hardly suspect the key 
which is to explain the connection between characters, and the final unfold- 
ing of the plot and disposition of the people who have been moving upon> 
the stage. This is one of the principal charms of the book — this utter con- 
cealment of motif, and its disclosure just at the right time to the reader, 
without having offered a hint of its nature, or betrayed a clue which might 
have weakened the interest in the story. 

"There is one respect in which 'Vanquished' differs from almost every 
other work of fiction. We can scarcely recall one written by a young lady, 
in which the author has not treated us to a very glowing description of scen- 
ery, drawn ( ut with painful minuteness, and devoted to ' fine writing ; ' to 
personal pictures, in which each picture is limned for us, commencing with 
the hair and ending with the toes, and in which we get the exact shade of 
the tresses, the color of the eyes, the length of the nose, and the curve of the 
lips ; and to mysterious toilet accounts, in which we get the color, texture, 
and material of the lady's or gentleman's wardrobe, as the case may be, with 
an extra touch of the technicalities of the language of fashion, in the case 
of a bride or bridegroom. Miss Leonard has had the good sense to omit all 

this. There is not a single description of scenery in the book She 

makes her characters describe themselves by their manners and their conver- 
sation, by the oddities and eccentricities which in real life distinguish men 
and women from each other, and by their actions in public and private. In 
the majority of cases, she has been very successful, and the result is, people 
are quite as sharply pictured as if she had given us the nationality of 
the nose, the cut of the sleeve, or the size of the slipper. Her work is nearly 
all subjective; a study of characters rather than of faces, of mental strug- 
gles, trials, aspirations, ambitions, and motives, rather than of physical sur- 
roundings or objective scenes. 

" A prominent feature in Miss Leonard's book is her frequent departure 
from the thread of her story — a straying out as it were from the beaten 
path into the fields — for the purpose of moralizing. These little dissertations 
are thoroughly healthy in their tone, often displaying a very keen insight 
into character, and are logical in treatment, although not always carried out 
6 



42 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

to their final result, as in some of the conversations between Bernice and 
Dr. Kashton. But, on the whole, they are terse, aphoristic, and pleasant, and 
throw her characters into stronger relief. We give a few of them at random. 

" ' Pain is an old story. We realize this after a time. We grow to under- 
stand by slow degrees that only the inconsiderate are confidential concerning 
their sorrows. Only the weak have groans extorted from them by the agony 
of mere heart-ache.' 

" ' Your talisman is Tact. Do not forget. You may consider this a plat- 
itude, nevertheless it is a truth. After Goodness, a woman's greatest posses- 
sion is Tact ; then Beauty, then — Intellect. The last is in most cases super- 
fluous in any unusual development. The first two are indispensable. You 
may be forgiven for being a fool, if you are a graceful one ; but you will 
never be forgiven if you lack Tact.' 
v " ' Duty is grand and Eeligion is glorious, but does not the human heart, 
steady and pure as it may be, and mounting on love-flights often as it dare, 
want a human sympathy perfectly indulged to make it healthful ? ' 

" ' We are in the midst of trifles that death may make relics of.' 

" ' So with mind. Experience disciplines it so gradually, it develops so 
silently and imperceptibly, that we do not realize its growth until some bitter 
experience bursts its calyx, and we marvel at what seems to be its sudden 
maturity. We say sorrow has matured, whereas sorrow has simply expanded 
the faded petals that joy would perhaps have kept hidden, but whose 
growth joy as well as sorrow has assisted.' 

" Miss Leonard has an admirable vein of humor, and a very skilful use 
of the weapons of satire ; summed up, ' Vanquished ' may be pronounced a 
success. The plot is well constructed ; the movement of the story is regular ; 
the denouement is skilfully sprung upon the reader, the characters are drawn 
from life, and depend for their interest upon their own merits, without the 
false coloring of improbability, exaggeration, or sensation, which are the 
prevailing attributes of latter-day fiction ; the style is pleasant and sketchy, 
and an air of refinement pervades the whole book. It has many of the 
faults which seem to be inseparable from all young writers, but experience 
will undoubtedly point them out, and suggest the method of curing them. 
We see no reason why Miss Leonard should not attain a very high position 
in the literary world." 

On the 29th of October, 1868, Miss Leonard was married to Dr. S. 
E. Scanland, formerly of Kentucky. 

Her varied accomplishments will adorn the domestic circle, as they 
have already the social and literary circle. 
October, 1869. 



AGNES LEONARD. 43 



"FRA DIAVOLO." 

"Fra Diavolo," that was the play; 
And the night was a glorious night in May. 
Stars on her brow, and bloom at her feet, 
And the breath of her west winds warm and sweet; 
That was without; within, the light 
Of dancing eyes and of jewels bright, 
And radiant faces, proud and fair, 
Outshone the rays of the gaslight's glare, 
And a strange, sweet perfume filled the air 
From the fragrant flowers I wore in my hair. 

Well, there, in a front-row box, were we, 

As fond and happy as lovers could be; 

And on my libretto he wrote his name, 

And under it, " Cherie, je vous aime ; " 

And my brain went round with the maddening play, 

Ard the 'wildering joy of that night in May ; 

While the crimson glowed in my burning cheek, 

As I looked a love that I could not speak. 

" Forever and ever, love of mine, 
Forever and ever I am thine; 
The sun shall fade and the stars shall wane, 
And my heart cry out for return in vain; 
Yet ever and ever its troth shall be, 
Beloved, plighted but to thee." 
These were the words, on that night in May, 
That were said in the pauses of the play ; 
These were the words that rang in my heart, 
And made themselves of my soula part. 

And I asked in the glow of the joyous hours 
"Was there ever a love on earth like ours?" 
" Never, O queen of my heart," he replied, 
" Never, my beautiful spirit-bride, 

Never a feeling so pure and true, 

Never a woman so lovely as you." 
"Fra Diavolo!" that was the play, 

And the night was a glorious night in May ; 

Three years ago — oh, what an age it seems, 

With its roseate hues of vanished dreams ! 



44 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Three years ago! Ah, the love has fled; 
The last red spark of its flame is dead, 
And vainly we search each other's face 
For the olden charm and the olden grace; 
And we think of the past with an icy chill 
Which is very unlike the olden thrill, 
Which shook our hearts that night in May, 
When "Fra Diavolo" was the play. 
We are so cold, the past is dead, 
And the last red glow of love has fled. 

And we smile at the feeling that thrilled us then, 

When we see it in other women and men; 

And we sigh "Eh Men/ they must one day learn 

How short a time love's red-fires burn." 

Ah, yes, we are older and wiser now — 

Too wise for the follies of youth, I trow ; 

Yet, would to Heaven, that night in May, 

When " Fra Diavolo " was the play, 

And on my libretto you wrote your name, 

And under it, " Cherie, je vous aime ! " 

Might come again, to fade no more, 

Till I close my eyes on the earthly shore. 



AXGEL OF SLEEP. 



Angel of Sleep ! I am weary and worn, 
Faint with the burden of life I have borne, 
Eager for all that thy presence can bring, 
Folding me under thy sheltering wing, 
Shutting my eyes to the dull glare and heat, 
Closing my ears to the unquiet street, 
Taking me out from the bustle and strife, 
Giving a death that is sweeter than life. 

Angel of Sleep! All the day's work is done; 
Weariness surely thy blessing has won ; 
Nearer, come nearer, thy beautiful wing 
Visions of peacefulness ever can bring, 
Dreamings that over my worn spirit lie — 
Star-glory over a pale moonless sky, 



AGNES LEONARD. 45 

Quietude soothing an overtasked brain, 
Hushing the cry of importunate pain. 

Angel of Sleep! I am tempted and tried; 
Lay your hands over the wounds in my side; 
Wounds that are deeper and wider, I ween, 
Than any that mortal eyes ever have seen. 
I am so weary, too weaiy to weep; 
Come to me, beautiful Angel of Sleep, 
Soothe me to slumber, and keep me at rest, 
And stifle the heart that beats in my breast. 

Angel of Sleep ! Success is a dream, 
Fame but a bubble on life's rushing stream ; 
Love is a mirage that beckons afar, 
Friendship the gleam of a pale distant star; 
Faith a vague rainbow that arches the sky 
Over the spot where the storm-ruins lie; 
Hope a red torchlight that brightens the way; 
Sorrow the measure of life's rainy day. 

Fain would I rest, blessed Angel of Sleep; 
Eest, though to-morrow I wake but to weep; 
Rest while my heart in my bosom I smother, 
Knowing one day is like unto another, 
Seeing no change in the long years that creep, 
Shadow-like over the Future's Great Deep; 
Shadows of vessels with gayly-filled deck, 
Barques that the breakers are ready to wreck. 

Over and over the story is told; 

Told to the youthful and proved by the old, 

Burden and sorrow, and bustle and strife, 

Hope and despair the sad story of life ; 

Yet oh, my beautiful Angel of Sleep, 

Over my spirit your loving watch keep; 

Wave your white wings that the tempest may cease, 

And slumber give unto my weariness peace. 



SARAH M. B. PIATT. 

A SOUTHERN critic and poet, doubtless desiring to be considered 
as one on whom the " mantle of genius " of E. A. Poe has fallen, 
in a series of "critical nibbles," placed Alice Gary high among the 
"lady poets" of America, saying: "Alice Cary has written more good 
poetry than any lady in America," — continuing: 

"There is but one other Southern poetess who can be compared to Alice 
Cary, and that one is Sallie M. Bryan. Miss Bryan is the more ima- 
ginative — Miss Cary the more touching of the two. The former is pas- 
sionate ..." 

He concludes by naming Miss Bryan as one whose name will live 
as long as there shall exist a record of American letters. 

We agree with this "critic" in his high estimate of Sallie M. 
Bryan. 

Sarah Morgan Bryan was born two or three miles from Lexington, 
Ivy., August 11th, 1836. Her grandfather, Morgan Bryan, was one 
of the pioneers of the State, and the founder of Bryan's Station, well 
known in the early Indian struggles. Her family was related to 
Daniel Boone. Her mother (who is represented to have been a lovely 
and beautiful woman) having died while she was a child less than 
eight years old, she lived with her aunt, Mrs. Annie Boone, at New 
Castle, Ky., and received her education principally at the Henry 
Female College, long a favorite Southern institution at that place. 
While yet a very young girl, she interested many who knew her with 
a poetic gift which in one so young seemed marvellous. Her first pub- 
lished poem was contributed without her knowledge by one of her 
cousins to a newspaper at Galveston, Texas, and she was afterwards 
prevailed on to allow her girlish writings to appear in the Louisville 
Journal, from whose columns they gained a wide circulation and pop- 
ular recognition, especially throughout the South. The late Fitz 
46 



S AL LIE M. BRYAN. 47 

Greene Halleck was one of the first to notice and admire her poetic 
genius, and having been pleased with one of her earlier poems in the 
New York Ledger, he took pains to make inquiry and learn her ad- 
dress ; he then wrote her a note, which is so pleasantly characteristic 
and so brief that it may not be improper now to make it public. 

Guilford, Conn., , 185S. 

Dear Lady : No doubt you often receive letters requesting your own auto- 
graph. May I reverse the medal and ask you to accept the autograph of one 

who admires exceedingly your [the name of the poem] . I remain, 

dear lady, your obedient servant, 

Fitz Greece Halleck. 

In June, 1861, Miss Bryan was married to Mr. John James Piatt, a 
poet of " exceedingly great promise," and resided with her husband in 
Washington City until last year ('67). In 1864, Mr. Piatt published 
a small volume at New York, entitled "Nests at Washington, and 
Other Poem- " which included some of the later poems of Mrs. Piatt. 
But since her marriage she has written comparatively little, occasional 
poems by her having been published, during the year or two past, in the 
various magazines. Her later poems, which are generally very artistic, 
brief, and delicately turned, with a sort of under-current dramatic ele- 
ment in them often, as the reader will observe in the poem of "The 
Fancy Ball," have been recently published (1871) by J. K. Osgood & 
Co., under the title "A Woman's Poems." 

Mrs. Piatt's home is now in Cincinnati, Ohio. 
December, 1868. A 



PROEM. 

TO THE WOELD. 



Sweet World, if you will hear me now 
I may not own a sounding lyre, 

And wear my name upon my brow 
Like some great jewel full of fire. 

But let me, singing, sit apart, 
In tender quiet with a few, 

And keep my fame upon my heart, 
A little blush-rose wet with dew. 



48 LIVING FEMALE WRITEES OF THE SOUTH. 



MY WEDDING-KING. 

My heart stirr'd with its golden thrill 
And flutter'd closer up to thine, 

In that blue morning of the June 

When first it clasp'd thy love and mine. 

In it I see the little room, 

Eose-dim and brush'd with lilies still, 
Where the old silence of my life 

Turn'd into music with "I will." 

Oh, I would have my folded hands 
Take it into the dust with me; 

All other little things of mine 
I'd leave in the bright world with thee. 



THE FANCY BALL. 

As Morning you'd have me rise 

On that shining world of art; 
You forget ! I have too much dark in my eyes — 

And too much dark in my heart. 

" Then go as the Night — in June : 

Pass, dreamily, by the crowd, 
With jewels to match the stars and the moon, 

And shadowy robes like cloud. 

" Or as Spring, with a spray in your hair 

Of blossoms as yet unblown ; 
It will suit you well, for our youth should wear 

The bloom in the bud alone. 

"Or drift from the outer gloom 
With the soft, white silence of Snow : " 

I should melt myself with the warm, close room ; 
Or my own life's burning. No. 

"Then fly through the glitter and mirth 

As a Bird of Paradise." 
Nay, the waters I drink have touch'd the earth ; 

I breathe no summer of spice. 



NELLY MAESHALL, 49 

" Then ! " Hush ; if I go at all, 

(It will make them stare and shrink, 
It will look so strange at a Fancy Ball,) 

I will go as Myself, I think! 

MISS NELLY MARSHALL, 

THE subject of this sketch is the daughter of the distinguished 
General Humphrey Marshall, of Kentucky, celebrated in the 
annals of the South as a soldier and a statesman. She was born in 
Louisville, Kentucky, in the year 1847. 

From her earliest childhood, Miss Marshall's intellectual develop- 
ment was remarkable, and her first compositions, though, as was natu- 
ral, abounding in the crudities that mark the early efforts of all young 
writers, foretold that mental power and strength which have since w T on 
for her so many warm admirers and true friends. But those abilities 
which, in another, would have been carefully and tenderly nurtured, 
were, in her, subjected to the pruning-knife of opposition, and hence 
her talent may be said to have grown like the prairie-rose, climbing 
and clinging and blossoming at its own sweet will. 

Reared in the strictest seclusion, and allowed only the freest com- 
munion with Nature, she has grown into womanhood with the trusting 
confidence of childhood in her heart and beautifying her character. 
She is described as petite in stature, delicately proportioned, and with 
large gray eyes and wavy light-brown hair. 

Miss Marshall is perhaps one of the most popular writers in the 
South and West, although, as yet, her intellectual power is, as it were, 
undeveloped. Her friends claim and expect more marked manifesta- 
tions of talent than she has yet given, and, judging by what this young 
lady has already accomplished, we think we may safely assert that 
they will not be disappointed. 

The circumstances that led Miss Marshall to abandon the retirement 
in which she had hitherto lived, were very sad. The war, which 
brought devastation and desolation to so many homes in Kentucky, 
passed by "Beechland" with an unsparing hand. Unexpected trials, 
sickness, death, adversity, assailed that once merry household ; and as 
a member of the shadowed and grief-stricken circle, Miss Marshall was 
compelled to resort to her pen, to stand in the breach between those 
7 



50 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

most dear to her and misfortune. Miss Marshall's first volume was 
published in 1866, "Gleanings from Fireside Fancies," by Sans Souci. 
" As By Fire," a novel, published in New York in 1869, was successful 
— giving promise of future success. At Frankfort, Kentucky, Feb- 
ruary 13th, 1871, Miss Marshall was married to Mr. McAfee. 

1369. Charles Dimitby. 



QUESTIONS. 

Why are the days so drearily long? 

Why seems each duty a terrible task? 

Why have my red lips hushed their glad song? 

Why? — thro' the distance I hopelessly ask! 

Why are the sunbeams ghastly and dim? 
Why have the flowers lost their perfume? 
Why wails my heart a funeral hymn? 
Why do my tears all my smilings entomb? 

Was I predestined a child of despair? 
Must all my brightest hopes soonest decay? 
Must all my castles be reared in the air, 
And hope, taking wings, speed fleetest away? 

Will he forever be haughty and cold? 
Never once melting 'neath love's sunny smile? 
Memories — sweet mem'ries of glad days of old — 
Teach me again how his heart to beguile! 

Has the bright past no brightness for him? 
Is the warm love that he cherished quite dead? 
Ah, love's gay visions have grown strangely dim ! 
Holdeth his heart a new passion instead? 

If this dark knowledge of misery be mine; 

If the hope of his truth, because brightest, be fleetest: 

Then, come, beloved Death! — I'll gladly be thine; 

And of all Love's embraces thine own shall be sweetest I 



NELLY MARSHALL. 51 



ALDER-BOUGHS. 

Shake down, oh, shake down your blossoms of snow, 

Green alder-boughs, shake them down at my feet; 
Drift them all over these white sands below, 

Pulsing with perfume exquisite and sweet ; 
And 'neath their kisses it may be my heart, 

Frozen and cold all these long dreary years, 
Into fresh being may longingly start, 

Melting its ice into passionate tears: 

Tears that must flow like a wide gulf between 

Two hearts that loved in the days long ago; 
Da>s, when these alder-boughs nodding were green, 

Flecked, as they now are, with blossoms of snow: 
Days, w r hen my lover and I were both young, 

Both full of constancy, passion, and love; 
Eoaming and dreaming these wild woods among, 

While a blue May sky bent smiling above. 

Days that are dead as the dead in their graves; 

Days whose sweet beauty and perfume have passed, 
Like the white foam-fret on Ocean's green waves, 

Buoyant and lovely, but too frail to last. 
And as we bend o'er the cold forms of those 

Who have gone early to Death's sombre sleep, 
Folding their hands as to welcome repose, 

Thus have I come o'er these dead days to weep. 

So bend low, oh, bend low ! alder-boughs green, 

Till I can catch at your blossoms of snow; 
Nodding like hearse-plumes so soft in the wind 

Over these smooth stretching white sands below! 
Never again while I live, alder-boughs, 

Will I your snow-blooms and verdant leaves see; 
But when I lie dead and cold in my grave, 

I pray God they'll blossom and fade over me! 



52 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

A WOMAN'S HEAET. 

From " As By Fire." 

Fanny Evesham was jealous as Gulbeyez, and the bitterness of her indig- 
nation against beautiful, innocent Electra amounted almost to passion. But 
it was not a jealousy prompted by love. It was simply the gangrene of 
wounded vanity, that her husband should not find her so irresistible that 
disloyalty to her charms would be impossible. Woman's heart is a deep and 
wonderful mystery, and it is not for the world, with the presumption of a 
Daedalus, to attempt to solve it by a process of metaphysical or philosophical 
investigation. Daedalus was ingenious artist enough to make the labyrinth 
of Crete, but the intricacy of a woman's emotions would be a riddle which I 
question if CEdipus himself could solve. In unhappiness of the heart they 
are seldom faithful to themselves ! In the hour of physical or social trials 
they stand forth in the arena magnanimous, unflinching — nothing sordid 
is mingled with their enthusiasm ; but let a woman's heart once resign itself 
to the sway of vanity, and she is already as irredeemably lost as if she trod 
the red-hot tesselations of the Vulcanian regions. No " Eden-born motives,"' 
no noble surroundings, no lofty altitudes, can h'er soul harbor or appreciate. 
Thenceforth she is a creature whose debasing passions will cast her from any 
exalted position she may occupy, or may have striven to attain. And of all 
errors into which she may fall, this love of flirtation, this contemptible 
vanity which would gratify itself at the cost of the purest and most ennobling 
emotions of which the heart is capable, is most defamatory to her character 
as a wife, a mother, or a woman. She makes herself the puppet for a mock- 
ing multitude ; she blights and degrades herself by a contemptible assumption 
of affection which she does not in reality entertain ; she pollutes the altars 
of love and friendship with the ashes of a dead heart ; she sets an example 
of evil to the sweet, fresh natures about her, which will doubtless beguile 
many into a like commission of folly — which, after all, terminates in morti- 
fication, chagrin, repentance, and regret. Yet at this shrine of pollution Mrs. 
Evesham bowed herself down an humble votary, and the sin of her beguile- 
ment reared its serpent crest above her. 



FLORENCE ANDERSON, 

Of Glen Ada, near Harrodsburg, Ky. 

WE subjoin the following brief sketch of one, who, from the un- 
eventful and subjective character of her life, protests that she is 
not a theme for the biographer. 

Florence Anderson is a Virginian by birth, a Kentuckian by adop- 
tion. Descended from families which for many generations had com- 
bined the highest attributes of scholar, soldier, and gentleman, men 
who from the dawn of our country's history had counted it no loss to 
peril all sa^e honor in defence of that country's liberties, Miss An- 
derson inherited, as her birthright, a love of learning, of honor and 
true glory. 

She had no teacher but her father. Her infant steps were steadied 
by him, as his hand guided her onward and upward to the fair temple 
of Knowledge. Deeply imbued as his own mind was with the love of 
classic lore, it was not strange that he should teach his docile and am- 
bitious pupil a deep sympathy with his tastes. Before a dozen sum- 
mers had blossomed over her, she had read Virgil and Horace ; had 
felt her heart thrill at the recital of the mighty deeds of heroes, had 
wept o'er Hector slain, and fallen Troy. In "Zenaida," Miss Ander- 
son's earliest work, the frequent, familiar allusions to classic subjects, 
and the use of words of classic derivation in preference to the more 
rugged and vigorous Saxon, were noted as defects in her style by more 
than one kindly critic. 

The book* was written as a contribution to a little paper, edited by 
a sister and herself to enliven the winter evenings, in a quiet country 
home. Read aloud by that sister's voice of music, now mute forever, 
the imperfections of "Zenaida" were overlooked by its too partial 
judges, and the book was published before the more chastened and 
corrected taste of the writer had had time to prune its too great lux- 
uriance. Its flattering reception by an indulgent public would, doubt- 
less, have stimulated the young authoress to renewed exertion in the 
field of romance, had not the war absorbed her sympathies, and paled 
the light of the unreal by the glare of the actual. In Miss Anderson's 
ideal of true development, the artist is ever subordinate to the woman, 
the woman to the Christian. She turns from the profound speculations 
and beautiful theories of philosophers and sages with more confiding 
* " Zenaida," published by J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, 1859. 

53 



54 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

faith in the Christ, the True Light ; recognizing Him as the Saviour 
of all mankind, but preeminently the Friend of woman. Believing 
as she does that the aim of life should be rather to make the whole 
life a poem, divine in its beautiful harmony, than to write poetry, her 
poems are to be judged more as the spontaneous expression of an 
emotional condition of the mind than as the labored effort of her muse. 
She has sung as the birds sing, because the song in her heart demanded 
a voice. 

The following personal description is from the graceful pen of a 
sister-poet, Mrs. Mary K. T. McAboy, of Paris, Ky. 

FLOEENCE ANDEESON, 

THE POET. 

Thro' the fair summer-time she came to me 
As bright birds flit to grace a crumbling shrine, 
Or like a blossomed vine with graceful twine, 
That drapes with young, fresh life a leafless tree, — 
She came, like Undine rising from the sea, 
Yet so ethereal, in the soft sunshine, 
She seemed to me half mortal, half divine, 
So fair she was in maiden purity. 
I* clasped her small white hand; she read to me 
From Poet, rapt to his divinest theme, 
And still she shone, as in a golden dream, 
The while she shared his nectared ecstasy. 
And then I said, her heart is like the snow, 
That reddens in the sunset's reddest glow. 
Roseheath, Ky., April 16, 1866. M. R. M. 



THE WOELD OF THE IDEAL. 

[Das Ideal ist das einzige Paradies aus welchem wir nicht getrieben werden konnen.] 

On spirit world ! by thy golden streams, 
I sit in a trance of delicious dreams; 
A magical flush in the air doth rest, 
Soft as the tint on the sea-shell's breast. 

The summer ne'er fades in thy shady bowers, 
And long, bright branches of clustering flowers 



FLORENCE ANDERSON. 55 

Trail thick over paths by the river's side, 
Wooed, wooed by the murmurs of the tide. 

There is no sun in the blue above, 
And yet a glow, like the light of love, 
Diffuses its radiance over all, 
And binds the spirit in magic thrall. 

The air is stirred by a faint, soft breeze, 

There's a sound like the humming of myriad bees, 

^..nd oft to the listening ear doth float 

The exquisite swell of a song-bird's note. 

No friendship ever may enter there 
That would feel a taint in the soft pure air; 
No lover intrude on the hallowed spot, 
Whose vows are unheeded and forgot. 

No votary kneel on thy holy sod, 

Whose soul is traitor to his God ; 

Nothing unholy, nothing untrue, 

Can dwell 'neath that arch of stainless blue. 

But friends, whose tender and loving smile 
Can all remembrance of grief beguile, 
Walk with the spirit, and share its joy, 
Unmixed with envy's base alloy. 

And poets tune their mystic lyres 
Where slumber sacred, hidden fires, 
And, skilled in music's subtlest lore, 
Unfathomed depths of the soul explore. 

To the fair aurora-tinted heights 
Of the world beyond they wing their flights 
And stand and beckon from their bands 
The angels of the immortal lands. 

They sing of beauty, of love, of youth, 
The value of life, the power of truth, 
Of all things holy, of all things pure, 
Which shall eternally endure. 

Such bowers of rest do the angels plan 
For the earth-worn, weary soul of man; 
And none have the power to disinherit 
From its world of dreams the Ideal spirit. 



MRS. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND DAUGHTERS. 

MRS. COLEMAN is more widely known as a woman of society, 
and as the daughter of the late John J. Crittenden, of Kentucky, 
than as an author. She was born at Frankfort, the capital of the 
State. Her educational advantages in early life were not such as are 
now enjoyed by the young ladies of the present day; but they were the 
best that Kentucky at that time afforded. At her father's house she 
met with the most distinguished men of the State, and grew up among 
the thinkers and talkers of the day. 

In 1830, Miss Crittenden married Mr. Chapman Coleman, of Louis- 
ville, and resided in that city, the centre of a gay and brilliant circle, 
until her husband's death, in 1850. Mrs. Coleman is a most brilliant 
conversationalist. A friend, who has been intimate with her for over 
thirty-seven years, says : " She has always been ambitious of attaining 
to distinction and the highest degree of excellence in everything she 
attempted. Her duties as a daughter, a wife, a mother, a sister, a 
friend, have always been performed in the most conscientious and 
admirable manner." 

Mrs. Coleman has been the mother of seven children, and from their 
birth she ever devoted herself to their education. After her husband's 
death she went to Europe, and lived in Germany for the purpose of 
educating her children. She studied with them, and mastered the 
French and German languages, with what success, the clever transla- 
tions from both languages, given to the world by herself and daugh- 
ters, best testify. Eugenia, Judith, and Sallie Coleman assisted the 
mother in these translations, of which the series of romances of Mrs. 
Miihlbach, relating to " Frederick the Great," are best known. The 
Misses Coleman are lovely, refined, and charming young ladies, full 
of grace and culture; how could the daughters of such a mother fail 
of being otherwise ? 

Mrs. Coleman's knowledge of literature is extensive and accurate. 
She has a prompt and bright judgment, and her industry and energy 
are invincible. Could she be induced to give her own thoughts to the 
world of readers, they could not but be delighted with their original- 
ity, cleverness, and her piquant style. 

Since her return from Europe, Mrs. Coleman has resided princi- 
pally in Baltimore. She was one of the select committee sent from 
Baltimore to petition President Johnson in behalf of Mr. Jefferson 
Davis, then in prison. 
56 



S. ROCHESTER FORD. 57 

Mrs. Coleman has published recently a Life and Times of her father, 
the Hon. J. J. Crittenden, (J. B. Lippincott & Co., Publishers, Phila- 
delphia, 1871,) one of the distinguished men of the country — as she is, 
and has always been, regarded as one of the most distinguished among 
the brilliant women of Kentucky. 

1S69. E. L. 

S. ROCHESTER FORD. 

MRS. FORD, w 7 hose maiden name was Rochester, was born at 
Rochester Springs, Boyle county, Kentucky, in 1828. 
She was the eldest of three daughters, and only in her fourth year 
when her mother died. "This loss was providentially supplied by the 
judicious supervision of her maternal grandmother, a woman of great 
mental and physical vigor, who devoted herself to her grandchildren 
with true motherly interest. Accustomed herself to out-door exercise, 
the management of a farm, and the superintendence of a large family, 
and being withal a woman of highly religious character, she appre- 
ciated and enforced the kind of training which is now apparent in the 
strong characteristics of our writer." * From the same authority we 
get the following : 

" Her advantages for acquiring Biblical knowledge were rather unusual, 
She was a lover of books and a close student. Her uncle, Rev. J. R. Pitts, 
occupied an adjacent farm, and gave her free access to his library and coun- 
sel. She cultivated the acquaintance of clergymen, especially those of her 
own denomination, and took an intelligent and deep interest in the study of 
the distinguishing principles of their theology. In this way she laid the 
foundation of the skill with which she has since defended the faith of her 
people." 

She married the Rev. S. H. Ford in 1855, who was at that time 
pastor of a Baptist church in Louisville, Ky. A short time after his 
marriage, Rev. Mr. Ford became proprietor of a religious monthly, 
called the "Christian Repository," which he conducted with success 
until the "w T ar-cloud burst." 

Mrs. Ford Commenced her literary life by contributing to this 
magazine, in the pages of which first appeared "Grace Truman ; or, 
Love and Principle." 

This work was published in 1857, by Sheldon & Co., of New York, 
and gracefully dedicated to "Elizabeth T. Pitts, my loved and ven- 
erated grandmother, who, beneath the weight of eighty years, still 

# « Women of the South," by Mary Forrest. 



58 LIVING FEMALE WHITE RS OF THE SOUTH. 

cherishes, with clear conception and unabated zeal, those principles 
which, in orphan childhood, I learned from her lips." 

This book had a very large sale. 

In 1860, through the same publishers, appeared Mrs. Ford's second 
book, — " Mary Bunyan, the Dreamer's Blind Daughter," — a tale of 
religious persecution. Says the New York Evangelist : 

" The simple incidents of Bunyan's life, his protracted imprisonment, his 
heroic endurance and lofty faith, are of themselves full of the deepest and 
most thrilling interest. It needed only the picture of his blind daughter, 
Mary, in her gentleness and patience under sore misfortune, to give com- 
pleteness to the tragic yet noble scenes in which Bunyan figures, so modestly 
yet grandly conspicuous. The author of the volume before us has carefully 
gathered up such historical facts — and they are, fortunately, numerous and 
well authenticated — as could throw light upon her subject, and has em- 
ployed them with great sagacity and effect in the construction of her story." 

During the war, Mrs. Ford was a refugee in "Dixie." For some 
time, in the later part of the war, Rev. Mr. Ford was stationed in 
Mobile. " The Raids and Romance of Morgan and his Men," * which 
appeared serially in a weekly paper, was published by S. H. Gcetzel, 
Mobile, in 1864, on dingy paper, with "wall paper" covers, but had a 
large sale, and was read and re-read by camp-fires and firesides. Mrs. 
Ford is now residing in Memphis, where her husband is editing the 
"Southern Repository," a monthly journal. 

March, 1868. 



AUXT PEGGY'S DEATH-BED. 

Wasted by disease, worn out with the strife of life, a calm, patient sufferer 
lies upon the bed of death. She knows her hours are almost ended, and as 
she feels the shadow of death stealing gently over her, her countenance be- 
comes more and more radiant with the light of heaven. 

'Tis a little cottage room, — neat, yet very plain; its whitewashed walls, 
and snowy window-curtains, and nicely dusted chests, and old-fashioned bu- 
reau with its bright brass knobs, all attest the hand of care. 

In the right-hand corner, near the fireplace, stands a low bed, with its 
clean pillows and blue yarn coverlet, and on that bed lies a resigned sufferer, 

* An edition was published by Sheldon k Co., Xew York, 1S66. 



S. ROCHESTER FOE D. 59 

breathing out her mortal life. She is sleeping now ; for the anodynes have 
done their work of mercy, and all pain is for the time entirely lulled. 

Beside the bed are two watchers, silent, lest the slightest noise might dis- 
turb the sleeper. One holds the old attenuated hand in hers, and gently 
notes the ebb and flow of the wellnigh spent life-current. The other is 
seated by her side, watching with anxiety every changing expression of the 
earnest face. 

The sleeper wakens, opens her eyes, and looks intently round the room, as 
if in search of some one whom she had been long expecting. Not finding 
the object of her lengthened gaze, she asked, in a low, feeble voice : 

"Hain't he come yit?" 

" No, Aunt Peggy, not yet." 

" An' won't he come dis mornin', Miss Gracey, don't you think ? I wants 
so much to see him." 

" Yes, Aunt Peggy, I am looking for him every minute." 

" I hopes he will ; for I wants to talk wid him once more afore I goes. 
He '11 surely come by-'m-by ; he never misses a day." 

"Yes, Aunt Peggy, I know he will come," she answered, bending over her, 
and giving her a cup of cold water. " He will be here, I am sure, in a few 
minutes ; Mr. Holmes has gone to town for some medicine for you, and he 
will come with him." 

"Med'cin's no more use for me, Miss Gracey. I'se almos' done wid dis 
airth, bless de Lord ; my time is come to go and be at rest. I tink before 
de sun sets dis day, I shall be far away from here in my Massa's house." 

"Do you feel any pain now, Aunt Peggy?" said Fanny, approaching 
nearer and taking the wasted hand in hers. She looked up as if she did not 
understand the question. 

" Does anything hurt you now, Aunt Peggy? " she repeated, bending over 
her, and speaking in a louder tone. 

" No, no, Fanny dear. I feels no more pain now ; it 's all gone, an' I 
think I '11 never have any more on this airth ; an' I 'se sure I '11 not have any 
in heben." 

As the old woman uttered these words of hope and resignation, they both 
felt her words were true; that soon the spirit which was now so faintly ani- 
mating that sinking frame would be released from its clay prison-house, to 
be forever at rest in the paradise of God. 

" Can I do anything for you, Aunt Peggy ? " she asked, as she saw the old 
servant direct her eye to the little table at the foot of the bed. 

" Jest a leetle drop of water, dear ; I feels so hot here," and she laid her 
hand on her breast ; " an' raise dis ole head a leetle higher, chile, dat I may 
see him when he comes. An', Miss Gracey, draw dat curtin a bit to one 
side, to let de light in, for my eyes is a-growin' dim. I wishes he 'd come." 

Her requests were attended to. She was raised, and supported by pillows 
in the bed, so as to have a full view of the door. \ 



60 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

" Dat will do, Fanny dear ; I kin see him now, if he comes afore my sight 
is gone." 

Fanny turned aside to hide her grief as the old servant spoke of the 
unmistakable signs of approaching death. Aunt Peggy had been to her a 
friend since the day she had first seen the light of earth. She had watched 
over her as if she had been her own child ; and often had her kind hands 
supplied her childish wants, and her kind words consoled her childish sor- 
rows. And in after-years, too, she had given her aid and comfort when her 
heart was sorely stricken ; had pointed out, in her own homely way, the path 
to those joys that fade not — that possession which is "undefiled, and that 
passeth not away." 

Mrs. Holmes, who had every day come to see the faithful old servant, 
entered the room. As soon as she caught a glimpse of her face, she read 
therein the evidences of approaching dissolution. Going to the bedside, 
and taking up the wan hand, she leaned down and asked her how she felt. 

" I 'se aimos' home, Miss Jane," and a faint smile for a moment parted her 
parched lips. 

"And are you happy, Aunt Peggy, in the prospect of so soon standing in 
the presence of your great Judge ? " 

"Yes, yes, Miss Jane, I 'se very happy. I has nothin' to fear. My Saviour 
will ans'er for me when I 'se called to give my account. He has died for me, 
and his death has took away all my sins." 

She stopped short for want of breath. Her respiration was becoming 
gradually more and more difficult. She folded her hands, and, closing her 
eyes, remained perfectly still for several minutes. Then looking anxiously 
up at her mistress, who was still by the bedside, she said, feebly : 

" I wishes he would come." 

" She speaks of Edwin, I suppose," said Mrs. Holmes, addressing herself 
to Grace. 

"Yes ; she has several times expressed a desire to see him." 

Just then footsteps were heard through the half-open door. The old 
woman, her hearing apparently rendered more acute by the great anxiety of 
her mind, seemed to catch the sound instantly, and turning her head on the 
pillow, said in a strong, clear voice : 

" He 's comin' now ! I hear his step," and her eye lighted up with an 
expression of earnest expectancy. 

"An' so you's come at last," she said, looking up into his face as he stood 
by her bedside, and making an effort to extend her hand to him. He per- 
ceived her intention, and immediately, with the gentleness of a woman, took 
her wasted hand, and pressed it within his own. 

"And how do you feel now, Aunt Peggy? " 

" I 'se very happy now, Massa Ed. I 'se so glad you 's come. I thought 1 
should n't see you agin, maybe, for I 'se almos' gone. I 've jes been tellin' 
Fanny here, dat before de sun goes down I shall be in my Massa's house." 



S. ROCHESTER FORD. 61 

Mr. Lewis felt her words were true. He saw that the spirit could not 
much longer linger in its frail tenement. 

Mr. Holmes mixed the medicine he had brought from Dr. Denny, and 
offered it to her. 

She shook her head slowly. " It 's no use now, Massa John ; it won't do 
no good." 

" But take it, A .nt Peggy ; it will keep you from suffering." 

She reached out her hand in the direction of the cup, but she had not 
strength to take it. Mr. Holmes elevated her head, and she swallowed about 
half of the mixture ; and then, as if exhausted by the effort, she fell back upon 
the pillows. The frill of her cap was thrown back from her forehead, reveal- 
ing her gray hair ; her gown was opened about the throat, and her bosom 
was partially bared, for she had complained of a great burning within, 
which nothing they could give her would allay. One hand rested on her 
breast, the other lay extended by her side. Not a muscle moved ; her breath- 
ing became low and lengthened ; and as they looked upon her, they felt it 
must be death. She had remained some time in this state of stupor, while 
every breath was thought to be her last, when, suddenly arising, she unclosed 
her eyes,' and fixing her gaze upon Mr. Lewis, who stood next her, she 
motioned for him to come nearer. He leaned over to catch her words. She 
seemed to be waiting for him to speak. He put his lips close to her ear, and 
said: 

" Do you feel that His rod and staff comfort you, Aunt Peggy ? " 

Gathering up her whole energy, as if for the final struggle, she answered, 
in a voice which was understood by all present : 

" Yes, yes ; I fear no evil, bless de Lord. De grave has no terrors for me ; 
and the sting of death is took away! I can say wid de 'postle, 'I has fought 
a good fight; I has kept de faith/ and I know dare is a crown laid up for me 
in heben, which my Saviour will soon place on dis poor ole head." 

" Your trust in the Lord Jesus Christ is sure and steadfast, Aunt Peggy ; 
no clouds to hide his face from you." 

" No, no ; my Saviour is wid me, an' his smile fills me wid joy. Christ 
died for poor sinners like me, an' he is willin' and able to save all dat comes 
unto him." 

Her voice failed her, so that she could not proceed further, and she 
remained motionless, with her eyes fixed upon Mr. Lewis, as if desirous of 
saying something more to him. At length she continued : 

" Go on, Massa Ed, to preach the gospel of Christ to sinners ; never give it 
up. Try to build up de little church, and God will help you." 

Her eyes passed from one to another, and rested at last upon Mr. Holmes. 

" Go on, Massa John, in de way you has set out ; you, and Fanny, and 
Miss Gracey. You has all been kind to me, and I 'se sorry to leave you ; but; 
I'se going home, and you'll all come arter me soon. Den we shall never 
part no more. I bid you all farewell," and she moved her powerless hand 



62 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

slightly toward them. Each one approached the bedside, and clasped the 
death-cold hand, while tears bedewed their cheeks. 

" Good-bye," she murmured to each pressure. 

They watched her as her breath grew fainter and yet more faint ; a slight 
shudder passed through her frame, a gasp, and all was still ! Her spirit had 
gone up to dwell on high. 

For some moments not a word was spoken. Each one stood gazing on the 
lifeless form before them with sorrowful heart ; for she who lay there, wrapped 
in the mantle of death, had been a friend to each — to all. 



3^?C 



MRS. MARIE T. DAVIESS. 

MRS. DAVIESS is of pure Revolutionary stock. Her two grand- 
sires, Capt. George Robards and Col. John Thompson, hav- 
ing fought through the war for Independence, married fair and excel- 
lent daughters of the Old Dominion, of which all parties were natives, 
and soon after removed to Kentucky, settling on adjoining plantations. 
Drawn together by the common memories of their service in the field, 
their acquaintance ripened into warm intimacy, which had the not 
uncommon result of an alliance by marriage between the two families. 
In 1807, Miss Robards and John B. Thompson were united in mar- 
riage, and, after a short residence on their farm, removed to Harrods- 
burg, where they ever after resided, Mr. Thompson practising success- 
fully his profession — the law, — occasionally serving in the Legislature 
of his State. He was a member of the Senate when the cholera swept 
over the land in 1833, taking him among its victims. The death of 
Mr. Thompson, in the prime of life and usefulness, seriously contracted 
the horizon of his family's future ; but a proud and energetic mother 
did all within her power to keep this sad reverse from interfering with 
their substantial good. She gave her four sons liberal educations, and 
her daughters such opportunities as the village school afforded, which 
was then, and is now, among the best in the West. The sons were all 
educated in their father's profession, and the eldest, John B. Thomp- 
son, the only one that entered into public life, was for many years a 
representative of Kentucky in Congress, and, while Lieut.-Governor 
of the State, was elected, at the death of Henry Clay, to fill his seat 



MARIE T. DAVIESS. 63 

in the Senate of the United States, Mrs. Daviess's opportunities for 
the acquirement of social distinction were of the finest. Residing in 
Harrodsburg, which every summer for many years was a resort of 
fashion and gayety, she was brought in constant contact with the elite 
of Southern ana Western society that for six months of the year 
thronged this " Saratoga of the West." Doubtless, in the scattered 
homes of this smitten region, when their now sobered tenants dwell on 
the happy days of "lang syne," Miss Marie Thompson has ever a 
place in the revived tableaux. 

In 1839, Miss Thompson was married to William Daviess, son of 
Capt. Samuel Daviess, and nephew of Col. Joseph Hamilton Daviess, 
a gentleman of worth, of fine address and remarkable colloquial powers. 
He was educated for a lawyer, but never practised. He entered upon 
a public career with great zest and promise of reward to his ambition, 
but, falling into wretched health, resigned his place in the State Senate, 
and has since contented himself with rural pursuits ; and seldom does 
a roof-tree shelter a more hospitable home or a more agreeable family 
circle than does the one of Hayfields. 

Mrs. Daviess's writings, especially poetry, were not, as now is fre- 
quently the case, the result of her training in belles-lettres, but simply 
the overflow of feeling and fancy that would not be repressed. Her 
coming before the public was not with the intention of ever writing 
professionally, nor the pursuit of the ignis fatuus, fame. 

A bridal compliment to a friend was so kindly received, that, by 
request from one and another editor, Mrs. Daviess threw out many 
waifs of beauty on the passing current of journalism, seldom under 
her own name, but signed by such name as the passing fancy suggested. 
Her effusions were extensively copied, and complimented for their 
smooth flow of rhyme and almost redundant beauty of expression. 
"The Nun" was the most elaborate poem she ever published. Most 
of Mrs. Daviess's MSS. and copies of her published articles were de- 
stroyed by an accident, and we have but few poetical specimens to 
choose from. " A Harvest Hymn " breathes a spirit of gratitude to 
Him who sends his seedtime and harvest alike upon the just and the 
unjust, and which we should all feel, whether we abide on the moun- 
tain-tops of prosperity or in the valley of humility. 

For some years after her marriage, if the fountain of Mrs. Daviess's 
pen flowed at all, it was like some of those strange streams that sink 
beneath the earth's surface, and wind on their way unseen, yet gather- 



64 LIVING FEMALE WK ITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

ing strength and purity to reappear in and fertilize fresh fields. The 
first fruit of Mrs. Daviess's revived authorship which I met were 
"Roger Sherman — A Tale of '76," and "Woman's Love," both very 
well conceived and sustained stories. But her strong conviction that 
the plain, practical duties of life should command, if necessary, the 
whole of every woman's time, seems to have tinged the very holiday 
hours she secured by extra exertion for the exercise of her taste ; and ' 
of late her writings seem to have been a kind of photograph of her 
every-day life. She received from the Kentucky State Agricultural 
Society a premium for the essay on the " Cultivation and Uses of 
Chinese Sugar-Cane," a product she was the first to introduce into the 
State, prophesying it would, as it has, become a staple of the West. 
Subsequently, she was awarded a diploma for an essay upon some lit- 
erary theme by the National Fair, held in St. Louis a few years ago. 
For some time she has been special contributor to several leading 
agricultural papers. Among them, Column's "Rural World," of St. 
Louis, and "Cultivator and Country Gentleman," Albany, N. Y. 
Her letters in these journals are among their most charming features, 
and the most useful exercises of a fluent pen. Viewed from one 
standpoint, all literature can be divided into two classes, the writers 
of Art, and the writers of Nature. In one, the composer is admired as 
a master-architect, who has ingeniously fettered together base, shaft? 
and cornice ; where thoughts stand like pillars carefully hewn, and 
whose figures adorn them, as curiously-wrought carving these columns. 
In the other class, we look upon the author as a friend, who, with 
absorbing conversation, beguiles us into a walk, and all the while 
points out to us the charms of the landscape spread out before us ; 
showing us the mist-enveloped truths that rise like blue hills in the 
distance, but lingering on the familiar things that surround us ; 
descanting with as much grace on the usefulness of the herb as the 
beauty of the flower ; commenting with equal interest on the value to 
commerce of the distant river which bears on its waters the produce 
of our own and foreign lands, and the meanderings of the babbling 
brook that, fretting over the rocky ledges, descends into the peaceful 
valley on foamy wings. 

Mrs. Daviess belongs to the latter class, and can please her readers 
as well with explanation of the useful as descriptions of the beautiful, 
often blending the two together in a manner we think quite her own. 

Mrs. Daviess is a living refutation of the world-wide charge of the 



M A EI E T. DAVIESS. 65 

incompatibility of literary and housewifely tastes. You might sur- 
prise many of her neighbors with the information that she "wrote for 
publication." She has always seemed to mingle literary habits so 
easily with the overwhelming cares of a large family, that we hope 
that genius as well as water will find its level, and that she will some 
day find leisure for a free exercise of her pen, and we see her take a 
prominent place among the " Southland Writers." 
1868. 



HAEVEST HYMN. 



" And ye shall eat neither bread, nor parched corn, nor green ears, until the selfsame 
day that ye have brought an offering unto your God : it shall be a statute for ever 
throughout your generations." — Ley. xxiii. 14. 

The Hebrew reapers on their blades leaned and gazed o'er the plain 
Wet with the toil-drops from their brow as from a summer's rain ; 
Then, tho' upon their dreary minds the vision clear arose 
Of home, and all its smiling group, and evening's sweet repose, 
They gathered of their harvest fruits, and ere the trump that woke 
From every hill and grassy glade its wild thanksgivings spoke, 
They from ten thousand altar-fires sent to the bending skies 
The incense of their grateful hearts in harvest sacrifice. 

And smiled the eye of heaven more bright on ancient Palestine, 
Than it is wont in summer hours on our fair land to shine — 
Did genial rains fall freer there, or the fresh, lifeful breeze 
Come with more stirring hopes to them from wide commercial seas 
Than unto us — or had they hearts more glad, or arms more strong, 
Than has our free land's sturdy race — that we have not a song, 
Or altar-fire, or trumpet-note, at harvest home, to call 
Forgetful hearts to thankfulness to Him who giveth all ? 

Come ! if the temple hath no voice that claims that task of love, 
Come round the household altar now, and yield to Him above 
Thanks for the treasure garnered in ; ask for the strength again 
To reap where'er His kindness spreads the golden harvest plain ; 
And pray thy nation may not prove ungrateful as that race, 
That Heaven may never make thy home a bare and blighted place ; 
That, tho' a conq'ror tramples now o'er Judea's courts and plains, 
No tyrant step shall stain our land or scar her sons with chains. 



QQ LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



VALUE OF PERMANENCE IN HOME AND VOCATION. 

(extract.) 

Another fruitful cause of discontent lies in what phrenologists term 
locality. Coupled with that, and almost as pernicious in its influence upon 
our characters, is the want of a feeling of permanence in our vocations. 

It was a great day for human progress when the revolutionary axe was 
laid to the law of primogeniture, that bitter root whence sprang all the un- 
just and baneful usages of aristocracy ; yet it was a pity that with the genea- 
logical tree should perish the many fair virtues that clustered in its shade, as 
love of home, pride of name, and fealty to kindred blood. It is an animating 
thought to the spirited younger brother, that he has an equal interest in the 
honors and name of his sire ; and that, when the sire has been gathered to 
his rest, law will give him an equal interest in his heritable goods. Yet it is 
a shame because no law entails the homestead on the name — that the place 
which a father's pride and mother's taste have combined to render a paradise, 
should have none but a salable value in their children's eyes. So with our 
callings. It is a proud thing to feel we are not born serfs to any soil or con- 
dition — that, by virtue of our own good deeds, and in the strength of our own 
will, we may rise to any station in our country's scale of honor ; and yet it is 
sad to feel that almost all our homes, and talents, and vocations are, like 
Chinese junks, ever floating, and that all we have and are can be had at a 
price. Ay, there is purity, and should be strength, in the tie that binds us 
to the homestead. The family that realizes its present to be its future home 
for all time to come, will not be drones or idlers, dreamers or speculators., in 
the many El Dorados that lure the sanguine to ruin. 

The trembling grandsire will plant, because he knows his fair young 
grandchild shall gambol in the shade of his cherished tree ; the young will 
sow, because they shall reap ; and thus, planting and tending together, make 
strong the bonds that hold, by happy associations, all to the old hearth-stone. 
In a like manner, a faith in the permanence of our vocations conduces to 
skill and proficiency, and generates an honorable emulation to excel in that 
craft with which we know our name and memory shall ever be identified. 
And this feeling of permanence in our homes and vocations gives higher 
tone to our moral nature. Knowing that upon the acquaintances of to-day 
we are to depend for the courtesies and kindness that must sweeten our even- 
ing hours of life, we allow our hearts to throw out their tendrils freely, nor 
fear they shall be rudely broken. Cordiality and benevolence take, in our 
intercourse with our kind, the place of formality and selfishness ; and, instead 



VIRGINIA PENNY. 67 

of a restless desire to find how we can make all we meet subserve our inter- 
ests, we know no higher pleasure than basking in the sunshine of gratitude 
which our own unselfish service of our kind has caused to light and glow 
around us. Living under these influences, the homes that are now so often 
profaned by the reckless steps of vice and the hideous voice of discord 
would become what they should be, the highest, purest type a Christian 
knows of heavenly rest. Then should we understand that feeling which 
makes it unsafe to give voice to the songs of Switzerland in the ears of her 
exiled soldiery ; the sentiment that makes the stricken foreigner beg his way 
back to his *' Vaterland ; " the unquenched desire that sends the outcast Jew 
in his death-hour to lay his bones in the desolate land of his faith. 



>>e^c 



VIRGINIA PENNY. 

MISS PENNY was born at Louisville, Kentucky, 1826. She is a 
graduate of the Female Seminary at Steuben ville, Ohio. 

Her published works are as follows : 

1st. Employments of Women. A Cyclopedia of Women's Work. 
Boston. 12mo. 1863. 

2d. Five Hundred Employments adapted to Women. Philadelphia : 
J. E. Potter & Co., publishers. 12mo. 1868. 

3d. Think and Act. A Series of Articles on Men and Women, 
Work and Wages. Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen & HafFelfinger. 
12mo. 1869. 

4th. How Women can Make Money, Married or Single, in all 
Branches, of the Arts and Sciences, Professions, Trades, Agricultural 
and Mechanical Pursuits. Cr. 8vo, pp. 500. Springfield, Mass., 1871. 

The subject-matter of these volumes is the same. 

" Miss Penny has earned the sober gratitude of women, and men interested 
in the lot of women, by the labors of many years in the hardest and least 
remunerative fields of service. She is no orator, politician, or manager, but 
a delving, drudging worker. With a patience that only the most profound 
faith could have sustained, and an industry that only a deep enthusiasm 
could have kept from flagging, she has devoted herself to the task of collect- 
ing and assorting facts bearing on the subject of woman's work and wages. 
What work women did or could do ; the amount of training demanded for 
it; the number of hours daily that must be devoted to it; the conditions 



68 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

and circumstances attending on its performance; its effect on health, spirits, 
and disposition ; the average amount of its remuneration ; the prospect it 
opened ; in short, every particular that was interesting or important in a 
practical point of view, she endeavored to ascertain. . . . Miss Penny's 
style is not especially brilliant or attractive, but is interesting; and, better 
than all, her essays are sober, wise, and important." — Nation, November ISth, 
1869. 

March, 1871. 



SALLIE J. H. BATTEY. 

MRS. SALLIE J. HANCOCK BATTEY was born at Evanside, 
Kentucky, about fourteen miles from the city of Louisville, at 
an old homestead which has been. the property of her family since the 
State was a wilderness. She was married at an early age to Mr. 
Hancock, and was a widow a few years afterward, and for ten years 
devoted herself to the education of her daughter, and the profession 
of literature. As an author Mrs. Hancock was industrious, and won 
laurels and friends. She has written considerable in prose and verse, 
under the name of "Latona," for the Louisville journals, and maga- 
zines North and South. For some time she edited a magazine. Has 
published three books, namely, two novels, and one volume of poems. 

1st. Etna Vandemir. A Romance of Kentucky and " The Great 
Uprising." New York. 1863. 

2d. The Mojitanas; or, Under the Stars. New York, 1867. 

3d. Rayon d' Amour. Poems. Philadelphia, 1869. 

Mrs. Hancock has been called the " Minstrel of the West." 

A poet, in an address to her, thus alludes to her poems : 

"Not thine to sing the sage's lore, 
Nor yet- to hymn polemic creed : 
Thy song supplies a nobler need, 
And touches chords untouched before." 

In 1870, Mrs. Hancock was married to Mr. Manfred C. Battey, for- 
merly of Buffalo, N. Y., now of Washington, D. C. 
Her address is Evanside, near JefFersontown, Ky. 

March, 1871. 



SALLIE J. H. BATTEY. 69 



DREAM; 



" We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep." 

Shakspeare. 

Golden ripples on the wall, 
Linger while the shadows fall : 

Eden visions trailing far, 
Through the sunset gates ajar; 

Diamond anchors on Time's strand, 
Tracery of the Almighty hand ; 

Death and sleep its counterpart, 
Mutely crossing hand and heart: 

Things that are, and things that seem, 
Through the pearly gates of dream, 

Strangely blent by God's decree 
In a dual mystery. 

Thus, when sorrow's night has shed 
Blight for living, pall for dead, 

Fairer forms of light are born ; 
Suns cross o'er the dark to morn ; 

Dreams are mirrored life to be, 
Heaven in an earthly sea: 

Stars at play, amid the sand, 
Chime in chorus deep and grand ; 

Spirit symbols here and there, 
Tell us God is evervwhere. 



ALICE McCLUKE GBIFFIN. . 

POEMS, by Alice McClure Griffin — Cincinnati, O., Bickey & 
Carroll, 1864, — was the simple title of a 12mo volume of 126 
pages. This volume is composed principally of verses that have 
appeared in the columns of papers and magazines, over the signature 
of "Muni Tell" and " Addie Glenmore." 

In a preface the reader is informed that "the entire book was written 
when the author was between fourteen and twenty years of age." 

Alice McClure was born in Boone County, Kentucky — the only 
daughter of Dr. Virgil McClure, also a native of Kentucky. Her 
mother is a descendant of Burns, the poet, and the author of several 
novels. Alice McClure graduated at the Wesleyan Female College, 
Cincinnati, at the age of sixteen. Her father at this time removed to 
Newport, Ky., where Miss McClure was married, on the last day of 
1861, to Mr. G. W. Griffin, author of "Studies in Literature" —a 
revised edition published by Claxton, Bemsen & Haffelfinger, Phila- 
delphia, 1871. 

Since their marriage, they have resided in Louisville. Mrs. Griffin 
writes occasionally for various periodicals. The following poem w T as 
thought to be very beautiful by the late George D. Prentice. 



SPIRIT LANDSCAPES. 

Not those bright scenes that charm the human eye 
With rich material beauty, glowing forth 
In bold relief of landscape — beauty drawn 
Of earthly hills and towering mountains high, 
Or tangled vales, or native murmuring streams, 
Whose rippling music echoes from the cliffs 
And high ascents that hedge their waters in; 
Nor yet the flowery fields, nor meadows rare, 
Where, 'mid the perfumed shades and grassy slopes, 
The ruminating herds seek sweet repose, 
Or gambol sportively in frolic free ! 
70 



SI. W. MERIWETHER BELL. 71 

Not those, ah, no ! though e'er so fair and bright, 
Can fill the spirit's ken with full delight ; 
No earthly scenes, though e'er so finely wrought, 
Can charm the vision of exalted thought. 

Imagination dreams of realms refined, 
Of scenes of beauty charted on the mind, 
Where, in unrivalled loveliness, appears 
The spirit landscape of the inner spheres ; — 

Where poesy sheds upon the fields of sense 
Sweet ideal flowers of wit and eloquence ; 
And mountain thought looks up to genius, high 
Enthroned upon the clouds of virtue's sky ; — 

Where, softly as a summer rainbow, seems 
The blending colors of affection's beams ; 
And, bright as stars that gem the brow of night, 
Resplendent aspiration sheds her light ; — 

And love, and truth, and holy, high resolve, 
Within their orbits gracefully revolve ; 
And through the system of religion roll 
Around their centre the inspired soul. 

These are the scenes that charm the spirit's eye, 
More than terrestrial views of richest dye ; 
And lovelier far than earth and sea combined 
Is the bright spirit-landscape of the mind ! 
March, 1S69. 

M. W. MERIWETHER BELL. 

MISS MERIWETHER is a native of Albemarle County, Virginia. 
She was born in that wild, beautiful spot, called the North 
Garden, and from childhood drew inspiration from its lovely mountains, 
and sang to the ripple of its streams., 

She is the second daughter of Dr. Charles Hunter Meriwether, and 
is descended maternally from old Virginian families. 

She is a genius, and "lisped in numbers" from earliest childhood. 
When only nine years of age, some of her verses were sent to a Vir- 



72 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

ginia paper, as specimens of precocious rhymes, and were published, 
puffed, and copied into various papers. 

After the death of her father, occurring when the subject of this 
notice was twelve years old, the family removed to Kentucky. 

In 1858, Miss Meriwether married Captain Darwin Bell, and from 
the time of her marriage has resided in Christian County, Kentucky. 
Post-office, Garrettsburg. 

Mrs. Bell has been termed the "Poetess of the Flowers." She 
writes quaint and suggestive prose. 
March, 1871. 



THE VALLEY LILY'S MESSAGE. 

valley lily, pure and pale, 

King out a silver chime 
From all your pearly bells, and lend 

Your music to my rhyme. 

With odorous sighs and tears of dew, 

Peal out the tender tale ; 
And tell him all I whispered you 

Down in the mossy vale. 

Tell him the royal rose is bright, 

The stately lily fair ; 
The tulip wears a robe of light, 

The jasmine scents the air. 

But on their beauty if he looks, 

Oh, tell him, then, of this : 
The rose her inmost leaves unfolds 

To the wanton zephyr's kiss. 

And the white lily, saintly fair, 

Like Danae of old, 
Spreads out her snowy lap to catch 

The yellow sunbeam's gold. 

The gaudy tulip boldly woes 

The butterfly and bee, 
And the jasmine flings her twining arms 

Hound every shrub and tree. 



M. W. MERIWETHER BELL. 



73 



But the valley lily hides away 

In places cool and dim; 
Under the shadowy leaves, and keeps 

Her sweetness all for him. 

Thus tell him, sweetest messenger ; 

Ring o'er the silver chime: 
His heart must listen if you lend 

Your music to my rhyme. 




10 




LOUISIANA. 



SAEAH A. DOESEY. 



I 



N alluding to the " Recollections of Henry W. Allen," an intimate 
friend of Mrs. Dorsey thus speaks of her : 



" To comprehend the organization that gave being to this book, one must 
have known the author — a woman highly strung, and yet calm ; nervous, 
and yet courageous ; sensitive, and yet not susceptible ; and strongly practical 
and considerate of the common usages of life. For one of such poetic taste, 
such ardent fancy, and withal devoted in no ordinary degree and with no 
common fidelity to her duties, her friends, her country, and her God, she 
possesses in an extraordinary degree the faculty of friendship, so to speak — 
that pure disinterestedness of soul which enables its possessor to put aside 
all selfish considerations in behalf of its objects of regard, and to separate 
from any warmer or more sentimental feeling the affection that may so 
legitimately exist between the sexes. 

"She had known Governor Allen from her childhood, is twenty years 
his junior, and was actuated in his service not only by friendship and zeal, 
but a sort of hero-worship, which our late disastrous struggle was well calcu- 
lated to arouse in the Southern breast." 

Sarah Anne Ellis was born on her father's plantation, just below 
Natchez. Her parents also had a residence in the suburbs of that 
city, where she was brought up. Her parents were both young and 
very wealthy, belonging to the oldest and most influential families in 
Mississippi and Louisiana. Her mother was Mary Routh ; her father, 
Thomas George Percy Ellis. She was the eldest child, born before 
her mother was sixteen; therefore, being rather an earnest, grave sort 
of a child, her mother always declared "Sarah w T as much older than 
she was." Her parents were both gay, and much beloved in society. 
Her mother was a very lovely woman, and her father was very gifted 
and brilliant. He died very suddenly at an early age. Sarah was 
his idol, being the only daughter with two sons, until a girl was born 
three weeks before his death. She adored her father; his death made 
a deep and ineffaceable impression on her, even at the early age of 

nine years. 

74 



SARAH A. DORSE Y. 75 

The dim outlines of the groundwork of "Agnes Graham's" family 
story were Mrs. Dorsey's own. Her great-grandfather, grandmother, 
and aunts suffered in that terribly mysterious dispensation of God. 
The earliest recollection of Mrs. Dorsey recalls her grandmother, a 
beautiful, stately woman, with exquisite hands and moulded form, an 
inmate of her father's house, hopelessly melancholy, possessing every- 
thing that the prestige of birth, and rank, and wealth could give; but 
the "skeleton in the closet" was always there, and for years this 
dreadful thought pursued her, even from childhood, as it had all of 
her family (her gifted aunts as well), making their inner lives deeper 
and more thoughtful than the life of most people. 

Her mother married Gen. Charles G. Dahlgren, afterward of the 
C. S. A., brother to the now Federal Admiral. Sarah was passionately 
fond of books, and was most carefully educated by her mother and 
stepfather. She had every advantage that money could procure. 
Her youth was very gay at Natchez, noted as the "society town" of 
the South. We are told that Mrs. Dahlgren entertained charmingly, 
in true, open-hearted Southern manner. She died of disease of the heart, 
in 1858. 

In 1853, Miss Sarah Ellis was married to Samuel W. Dorsey, of 
Tensas Parish, La. 

From earliest youth, in common with most thinking Southerners, she 
has been deeply interested in the laboring class, and can say honestly, 
in the face of Heaven, she has devoted every faculty she possesses to 
their improvement, so far as she could, while she owned them. This 
she did as a matter of duty. She now does what she can for them as 
a matter of humanity. Every Sunday, in her plantation-home in 
Tensas Parish, she has a class of from fifty to sixty scholars of negroes. 
She teaches them to read and write, and religion. She is an Episcopa- 
lian, and believes a full ritual the only way to interest or reach these 
masses. Her husband lost nearly a quarter of a million of dollars by 
the war. They took their negroes to Texas during the " struggle for 
Confederate independence." Some of the experiences of Louise 
Peyrault (in "Lucia Dare") were real. Indeed, most of the Southern 
incidents in this book are true, most of the characters from life. The 
scenes in Natchez are merely idealized ; any old resident can locate 
them. 



/6 LIVING FEMALE WE ITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Mrs. Dorsey began to write for the press by accident, — a lucky one was 
it for the public. Writing on business to the New York Churchman, she 
ventured to answer a question propounded in that paper concerning 
the use of the choral service and full ritualism for negroes. She had 
adopted the full ritual, and had herself adapted the American liturgy 
to some of the cathedral services and music of the Anglican Church, 
and wrote her experience of five years' use of this musical science to 
the Churchman. The editor published her letter, and, in a subsequent 
number, another, signing the articles " Filia Ecclesise," daughter of 
the church. She liked the name and has ever since retained it. 

Mrs. Dorsey has lived almost equally at Natchez and on Lake St. 
Joseph, where her family have had their plantations since the first 
settlement of the State. 

All of Mrs. Dorsey's writings are Southern in tone and character, 
and have nationality, and are valuable, inasmuch as they are true 
pictures of that phase of Southern existence which is over and will 
soon be forgotten in the misery into which our unhappy country is 
plunged. 

Mrs. Dorsey is passionately fond of study, but has necessarily been 
a woman of society and of the world, all her life. The friend, once 
before quoted, speaking of her memory of what she read, as illustrated 
in her " Kecollections of Governor Allen," remarks : 

" The writer of this booh has so ( encyclopedic a mind/ so to speak, that 
her daily conversation is quite as much strewn with the result of her reading 
as are the pages here recorded. I have sometimes, when in her society, been 
reminded of Sidney Smith's remark about memory — when he termed it a 
wondrous engine of social oppression. Yet is she frank, eager, and artless as 
a child." 

Her married life has been smooth and unruffled. She recognizes all 
of God's goodness to her, having had more than " the fourteen happy 
days of the Moorish monarch." 

During the war, Mrs. Dorsey spent two years in Texas. While 
there, she aided in nursing in a Confederate hospital, and did such 
work for the church as she could. She travelled twice from Texas to 
the Mississippi River by land, once with her husband, two overseers, 
and several hundred negroes. The measles broke out among them ; 
they had a very distressing time, and buried the poor creatures all 
along the road. They were frequently compelled to encamp for days 
and weeks at a time. She had a tent made of a piece of carpet, but 



S AE A H A. DORSE Y. 77 

it did not always protect them, as it was not water-tight. Mr. Dorsey 
had to leave her to go after some negroes in the northern part of the 
State, and she was alone with the overseers and negroes for ten days 
in the immense pine forests of Winn Parish. 

In 1860, Mrs. Dorsey sent to New York, to be published for gratu- 
itous distribution, the choral services she had arranged and used so 
successfully among her negroes for years. The now Bishop of Florida 
had charge of this for her, but the intended publisher failed, and the 
war came, and the service remained unpublished. She is an enthusi- 
astic Episcopalian, and was a dear friend of the lamented Bishop- 
General Leonidas Polk. She is very much interested in the establish- 
ment of an order of deaconesses, connected with the church in New 
Orleans, which was her reason for making Agnes Graham (in the 
novel heretofore alluded to) end as one. This effort she desires to make 
in obedience to a promise exacted from her by Bishop Polk, on his last 
visit to her, in 1860, " that she should do everything in her power, as 
long as she lived, toward the establishment of a Sisterhood of Mercy 
in New Orleans." The bishop considered this a matter of primary 
importance to the Church and Protestantism. 

During the war, Mrs. Dorsey's house was burned in a skirmish, and 
several men killed in her flower-gardens. 

She is a highly accomplished lady, reading six languages, though 
by no means a pedant — a musician, performing on the harp with the 
same exquisite taste as "Agnes Graham" is described as doing. We 
quote the passage : 

" The young lady, after passing her fingers lightly over the strings of the 
harp, took her seat and played a brilliant, merry polka. . . . Striking a few 
modulations upon the strings, the music changed from the gay polka move- 
ment to a slow, plaintive measure. The red lips parted, and breathed most 
touchingly the exquisite melancholy strain of Schubert's ' Wanderer.' The 
song ended, the chords swelled on the air. She sang the scena and aria 
from Der Freischlitz, ' Wie nahte mir der Schlummer bevor ich ihn gesehn.' 
It is a gem of music, and it was sung to perfection. The joyous allegro 
movement at the close, ' Allmeine Pulse schlagen,' was admirably rendered.-" 

She uses her pencil like a born artist ! And yet Mrs. Dorsey is 
by no means a " literary lady," as that term is often used, priding her- 
self much upon her domestic qualities, being a capital nurse for the 



78 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

sick, a good teacher, an excellent housekeeper, and, when it is neces- 
sary, a superb cook. 

In 1866, Mrs. Dorsey published, through M. Doolady, New York, 
" Kecollections of Henry Watkins Allen, Brigadier-General Confeder- 
ate States Army, Ex-Governor of Louisiana," of which volume the 
private secretary and friend of Governor Allen thus speaks : 

" It is the most faithful and thorough portrait of him that could be drawn, 
the best word-likeness that has been produced this century. It is accurate 
in point of fact ; it is full in materials ; it is tasteful in arrangement. The 
coldest critic cannot deny it the merit of sincerity and strict adherence to 
truth. The most exacting literary critic would stultify himself if he were to 
say that he found no beauties in the style, no pathos." 

Reading a copy of this volume after a friend of the author has 
read and wept over it, we find many passages " pencilled," with re- 
marks made on the same. Speaking of the burial of a brother of Henry 
Allen on the prairie of Texas, the author says (pp. 26 & 27) : 

"It is a pleasant resting-place, — one of those Texan prairies, — they are so 
thick with bloom and verdure. In that dry atmosphere the wild flowers 
seem peculiarly fragrant. Bulbs abound — hibiscus, glowing crimson; nar- 
cissi, a sort of blue narcissus with a golden centre ; ornithigalliums of fine- 
rayed corollas double as daisies, white, with chalices of tender lilac bordered 
with green, so delicate they droop in the plucking ; crimson poppy mallows, 
hanging their heads heavily, as Clyte did hers in the Greek sculptor's 
thought, on their long, slender, hairy footstalks ; purple iris, small, Tyrian- 
dyed, flecked with white and gold dots ; larkspurs, pink, and white, and 
blue ; pale, flesh-colored prairie-pinks ; long, full racemes of straw-colored 
cassias ; great bunches of light papilionaceous blossoms, set in ovate leaves 
of light olive-green; starry heleniums; coreopsis too, yellow, eight-cleft, 
darkening into brown-red disk florets; foxgloves,' white and violet-spotted; 
pink and purple campanaulas, cymes of golden bloom, like English wall- 
flowers ; paniales of downy, azure, four-petalled blossoms, like Swiss forget- 
me-nots ; bull-nettles, with prickly runcinate leaf, guarding a tender, snow- 
white, soft bloom, which rivals the Indian jasmine in its exquisite fragrance 
and graceful beauty. All sorts of salvias, verbenas, mints, and wild balms 
grow profusely on those prairies, mingled with the delicate, fine-leaved, close- 
creeping vines of the lemon-colored and pink-blossomed, vanilla-scented sen- 
sitive plants (mimosas), and the rich green of the musquite and gamma 
grasses, making a lovely covering even over graves. And above all this 
blossoming earth stretches out a vast dome of clear blue sky, vast as the 
ho-izon on the ' wide, open sea.' " 



SAEAH A. DOESEY. 79 

To which the friend pencils : " She writes con amore here. There is 
not a flower among all of those mentioned that she has not painted to 
the life." 

In 1867, "Lucia Dare," a novel, was published in New York. This 
is in part a war novel. The pictures of Southern life are well drawn, 
and some of the characters interesting and vividly portrayed. Annie 
Laurie especially is a very lovely creation, and Grace Sharpe a strongly 
drawn one. A great fault in this novel is too many characters. A 
novel should have three or four prominent characters around which 
the interest of the narrative should centre — they must be brought 
prominently forward, and made the chief actors. From the opening 
of this novel, I thought Lucia Dare was to be the chief actor, and 
her brother's fate to remain a mystery until the close of the volume ; 
but the story is wrought out differently, and with much interest too, 
although the reader recognizes Lucia's brother (Gerald) as soon as he 
appears. A revised edition of "Lucia Dare," with omitted chapters 
of much interest, may possibly be shortly published. 

In 1869, Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger, Philadelphia, published 
"Agnes Graham." This is a revision of "Agnes" — a novel which 
was published serially in the " Southern Literary Messenger," 1864, 
and was reviewed in the New York " Round Table " thus : 

" This is a story of our own day, a genuine presentation of life — under 
circumstances, however, which may be considered a little exceptional. The 
scenes are laid principally in the South, and there is a warmth of imagination 
about some of the descriptions which lead one to think that they are colored 
and sometimes magnified beyond the measure of nature. But the characters 
are admirably drawn : there is scarcely one which does not seem to have a 
living counterpart ; they are all consistent with truth, and in harmony with 
each other. Every woman who has been to school has seen one such girl 
as Agnes Graham ; and her conduct during the scene in the playground — 
which is very well described — plainly betokens the power, self-control, and 
rigid sense of right which distinguish the noble girl through life. Left an 
orphan, she passes her vacations with her Aunt Eleanor, to whom she is 
devotedly attached. This aunt is a gentle, pure, good woman, suffering 
under the weight of a sorrow which no human aid can mitigate or remove ; 
and between her son Robert and Agnes Graham a strong affection springs 
up, to which the outer world sees no objection. Robert goes to Germany to 
study medicine, and returns about the time that Agnes finishes her education, 
to claim his bride. But, before giving her consent to their marriage, Aunt 
Eleanor deems it necessary to impart to each of the young people a terrible 



80 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OP THE SOUTH. 

family secret, which might forever preclude the possibility of their being 
united. Eobert determines to make Agnes his wife at all hazards, and the 
whole weight of the inevitable sacrifice falls upon her. The finger of God 
had placed an impassable barrier between them, and she had no alternative 
but to part from him. An opportunity occurs for Agnes to accompany some 
other relatives to Italy, where a life of trial and intense mental anguish 

awaits her Her whole conduct and bearing through life, her struggles 

with sorrow which knows no healing and spreads like a pall over her whole 
existence, are depicted in a manner which shows that the author has an 
appreciation of genuine pathos which appeals at once to the heart of her 

readers ' Filia ' possesses many of the most important qualifications 

for a good novelist, and her faults are only those of immaturity." 

Mrs. Dorsey has recently written a novel that will, we think, attract 
great attention from the reading world and the " critics." It will be 
entitled " A Southern Villegiatura." 



REFUGEEING. 



On our way to Texas, Louise and her little ones, all the slaves, and I. . . . 

We lead the strangest life, cousin, and — ' camp out/ as they call it, 
every night, take our meals, gipsy-fashion, by the roadside. We have tents 
— Louise and I ; but the negroes threw away their tents as too cumbrous, and 
they content themselves with bowers, or lairs, built up of pine branches. It 
is very picturesque. We stop for the night, usually at sunset, near a stream 
of water. The wagons are drawn up in rows ; children, old women, and bed- 
clothes emptied out of them, and then such a motley scene of confusion you 
could not imagine — everybody so busy ; our tents hoisted while Louise and 
I sit on a log or fallen tree-trunk, and survey the excited multitude of ne- 
groes building up their green booths, shaking out their blankets, rattling 
skillets and frying-pans over the numerous fires which spring up as if by 
magic. Louise showed me the ' fire-horn ' of the negroes, a small end of 
cow's-horn filled with half-burned cotton lint, and a jack-knife and a piece 
of common flint. The children race about like mad things, joyful to escape 
from the confinement of the wagon. Louise's little ones play with the tiny 
darkies ; she does not pretend to keep them asunder. ' The little negroes are 
not wicked,' she says, in answer to my remarks on this point. ' They are 
very good to my children, and I like my little ones to love these little slaves. 
Why, / love the poor creatures, Lucia.' And so she does. Every evening 
she goes about among her slaves, seeing after the sickly and delicate ones. 



S AEAH A. DOESE Y. 81 



GOVERNOR ALLEN. 



" Allen was singularly earnest in nature. His intellect was very quick 
and bright. If a jest or an amusing anecdote was repeated to him, he would 
seize the point instantly, and his merry laugh would ring out with all the 
enjoyment of a child. But he had himself no innate sense of humor, no 
appreciation of what Mr. Kuskin calls ' the grotesque.' The simplicity of 
his nature, on this point, was amusing, and produced, sometimes in those 
who loved him most, a sort of tender, wondering, smiling pity ; because, 
from the lack of this inherent consciousness of the ludicrous, he was some- 
times betrayed into the assumption of positions that in other men would 
have been ridiculous. The incongruity, however, never striking him, he 
would do and say peculiar things, that would make people smile, with such 
entire bonhommie, such singleness of purpose, honesty of heart, and open 
warmth of expression, as Sir William Hamilton expresses it, 'such outness' 
of truth, and goodness, such high ideal perception of romantic sentiment, 
and so much clever, shrewd, practical, intellectual ability shining through 
everything, that, while he was often peculiar, frequently amusing, he never 
was absurd or frivolous ! Though sometimes he seemed vain, he was never 
affected. He was honest even in his foibles. If he had had any sense of 
humor, he would not have seemed vain. People that are gifted with a quick 
perception of wit and humor, instinctively avoid placing themselves in what 
they fancy might be ' a ridiculous position.'' Their vanity is deep, perhaps, 
but it is hidden. It is a sensitive nerve, that warns them, and preserves them 
from peculiarity. They are sensitive to ridicule, and fear being 'laughed at.' 
Allen never had that fear; he never for an instant supposed anybody would 
laugh at him. He liked the badinage and railleries of a friend ; they amused 
him, even at his own expense. Allen never saw anything amusing in his 
making a desperate charge at Shiloh, with his head bound up in white cotton ! 
He considered it all en regie. It was the best to be done, under the circum- 
stances ! " 



THE LAURIES AT HOME. 

(From " Lucia Dare.") 

"The 'Charmer,' for so was fancifully named the boat that had transported 
Lucian up the broad river, reached Natchez just at sunset. Lucian found a 
carriage and servants of Mr. Laurie's waiting for him at the landing ' under 
the hill.' When the carriage — it was an open brette (the fashionable 
afternoon carriage for driving at Natchez) — reached the top of the long hill. 
at least five hundred feet in height, round which the road wound on an inclined 
plane up to Natchez 'on the hill,' Lucian, chancing to look behind him, could 
11 



82 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

not refrain from uttering an exclamation at the beauty of the view. The 
coachman, thinking that Lucian spoke to him, checked his horses. Lucian 
stood up in the carriage and looked down to the river, rolling its vast volume 
of waters at the foot of the bluffs. The village of Natchez, under the hill, 
was clustered close to the water's edge ; the bluffs rose precipitously, garnished 
with pine-trees, and locusts, and tufted grasses ; the vista here terminated in 
Brown's beautiful gardens, gay with flower-beds and closely clipped hedges. 
Far away over the river stretched the broad emerald plain of Louisiana, level 
with the stream, extending for many, many miles, its champaign chequered 
with groups of white plantation-houses, spotted with groves of trees, rich in 
autumnal beauty, glowing with crimson, gold, and green, softened by veils 
of long gray moss. This plain was dotted with lovely lakes, whose waters 
shone in the slanting rays of the declining sun like so many great rubies in 
a setting of smaragdus. The sun went down quickly, as he does at sea, a 
round, red fire-ball, while light splendid clouds of purple, pink, lilac, and 
gray on the blue, blue heavens refracted the ascending, slender, quivering 
rays of the disappearing orb, the type of Deity in all natural religions, the 
Totem of the Natchez Indians. 

"The 'Charmer' was moving off, under full head of steam, up the river, 
and a number of skiffs and small boats were plying about over the broad 
Mississippi. Lucian gazed with delight on all this beauty ; then seeing the 
night coming on fast, he bade the coachman drive on. They had some dis- 
tance to go — nearly two miles out of the suburbs — before they could reach 
their destination. They drove rapidly up the streets of the village, for the 
town itself was scarcely more than through the suburbs, of handsome resi- 
dences, whose gardens, all adjoining and dovetailed into each other, almost 
realized the descriptions of Damascus, that queen of the desert, with its triple 
chain of gardens, its necklaces of 'paradises.' Lucian was confused and 
excited by the rapid motion of the carriage, rushing on through acres of 
bloom, perfume, foliage, and verdure ; passing here and there the glimmering 
white pillars of stately houses, in most of which lamps began already to 
burn and glow, and throw out long, narrow shafts of penetrating light on 
the darkness, glittering through the glossy shining leaves of the evergreen 
lauri-mundi, the native almond-laurel, and casting a cheering radiance over 
the wayfarer as he passed along. Notes of music, and singing of sweet voices, 
and the gay laughter of little children, sounded on his ear and died into 
silence instantaneously as the carriage rolled by. 

" Beloved city — bright city of 'the Sun!' — how often have I paced with 
child's feet the road that Lucian was now travelling over, and listened, as he 
did, but more lingeringly, to the sounds of gentle human life stirring within 
thy peaceful homes ! How often have I thanked God for my beautiful child- 
hood's home — for my precious Southern land — for its sunshine, its verdure, 
its forests, its flowers, its perfume ; but, oh ! above all, for the loving, refined, 
intelligent, gentle race of people it was my great, my priceless privilege to 



SAEAH A. DORSEY. 83 

be born among — a people worthy to live with — yes, icorthij to die for. 
The stern besom of war has swept over you, beloved Natchez. Your fairest 
homes have been desolated, your lovely gardens are now only remembrances. 
Your family circles are broken up ; your bravest sons are sleeping in the 
dust of death, or weeping tears of bitterness in exile ; your daughters, 
bowed down with penury and grief, are mourning beside their darkened 
firesides ; your joyous households transferred to other and kindlier lands ; 
the forms of my kindred faded into phantoms of the past; strangers sit 
now in the place that once was mine ; but yet thou art lovely, still lovely in 
thy ruin, in thy desolation. City of my heart — city of my love — city of 
my childish joy. Oh, city of my dead ! 

" The carriage stopped suddenly at a gate, the footman swung it open, the 
two leaves flew back with a clang, the carriage proceeded at a slower pace 
through an avenue, or rather wound through ' a piece of woods ' that an 
Englishman would call a park. It was almost a hundred acres of primeval 
forest-trees, under which the red-man had often danced, consisting for the 
most part of oaks, — white, red, and water oaks, — with mixture of hickory, 
gum, maples, magnolias, and the cucumber-tree, with its umbrella-like top, 
its immense leaf, and the enormous white vase seated in the centre of radi- 
ating foliage like a huge chalice of perfume, handsomer even than its sister, 
the magnolia grandiflora. 

" Natchez is in the temperate, not the tropical zone ; so there is exaggeration 
in the fanciful descriptions of its climate and productions, as given by Cha- 
teaubriand and Lady Georgiana Fullerton ; but it is a warm, bright, sun- 
shiny place, with marked and changeful, though not extreme transitions of 
temperature and seasons. Its pleasant, gently rolling hills and dells are 
laughing and gay with blossoming trees and shrubs ; the old earth breathes 
forth flowers from every rough pore — not heavy, stupefying, deeply-colored 
tropical bloom — but great luxuriance of fresh, delicately tinted blossoms of 
all hues and forms, spreading successively their capricious, flaunting beauty, 
mantling the old mother anew with every morning's light. The wild flowers 
there are worthy of being the subject of Adelbert Dietrich's delicate pencil, 
or of Miss Prescott's glowing word-painting. One need only describe faith- 
fully what exists, not attempting to heighten or exaggerate with human 
imagination or invention what God has made so lovely, to paint attractive 
pictures of those ' magnolia ' hills and of the park through which Lucian 
was now being driven. 

" When the carriage entered the smaller circle of fencing that enclosed the 
house and gardens, the noise of the wheels grating on the gravel of the drive 
caused the heavy doors of the portal to fly open, and Margaret and Jenny, 
forestalling the decorous servant, emerged from the gloom and advanced to 
welcome the traveller. Margaret looked like a fairy standing in the moon- 
light, her red-brown hair clouded about her; and Jenny, who was as usual all 
dusk, except the curd-like teeth and shining eyes, might have passed very 



84 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

well for her attendant dwarf. Jenny was small of her age and had elfish 
ways. Her peculiarities .of appearance were heightened on this occasion by 
costume : she sported a large white apron with a wide ruffle, much too long 
for her, really borrowed from Betsy for the purpose of adornment ; a white 
handkerchief tied on her head, turban-fashion, tall as a dervish's cap, a long 
strand of blue glass beads around her neck, a pair of immense gold ear-rings, 
and her broadest and widest grins. 

" ' This way, Lucian, this way/ said Margaret ; ' not up the staircase ; ' 
leading him, as she spoke, beneath the flight of stairway which led up into the 
gallery of the first story. Margaret led him then through a hali level with 
the ground, paved with black and white marble, which ran under the arch 
of the stairways. 

" ' Here they all are, in here. You know this is such a queer old Spanish 
house ! You '11 soon find out all about it, though it is puzzling at first.' 

"The newly arrived guest was kindly received by Mr. Laurie and Annie, 
who were sitting alone near a blazing wood fire in the family parlor. The 
nights were too chilly for the blind man, even for that early period of the fall. 

" ' Come to the fire, Lucian,' he said ; ' one gets cool riding, and this old 
house of Guyoso's is damp as a basement, almost.' 

"Lucian looked around with some curiosity at the rather old-fashioned, 
quaint furnishing of the apartment they were sitting in it. It was hand- 
some, but not new. On the wall just opposite hung the portrait of a man 
in full armor — a dark, oval face, handsome and swarthy. Annie saw his 
glance. ' That,' she said, taking up a lamp and holding it so that the light 
could fall on the picture, — ' that is a portrait of Bienville, by Champagne. 
Bienville was a relative of my family. Here is another of Guyoso, the Span- 
ish Governor of Mississippi.' 

" ' Has n't he got a long nose ? ' interrupted Margaret, disrespectfully. 

" ' Here 's another of Stephen Minor, who was second in command under 
Spanish domination.' 

" ' Do you like his uniform, Lucian ? ' asked Margaret. 

" ' It is all red, with yellow facings, and see the big star on his breast ! ' 

" ' Here is some gold plate belonging to Yidal, that he brought from Spain 
to the colony. His whole dinner-service was gold — is gold, I should say; 
his descendants, our neighbors, still use it on grand occasions.' 

" ' And who is this ? ' asked Lucian, as he examined a small miniature 
hanging below the portrait of Bienville. 

"'That,' said Annie, 'is a likeness of our grand-uncle, Philip Noland, 
who disappeared in 1807, and was never heard of again. He was a lieuten- 
ant in the navy of the United States ; his wife lost her reason from grief at 
his prolonged absence. She had just been married — was barely more than a 
child in years at the time she eloped with and married Philip against the 
will of her family. We have some of his letters still extant. He seems to 
have been an intellectual, but not a good man, from all I can learn. His 



MARIE BUSH NELL WILLIAMS. 85 

wife still survives ; she is over sixty years old now, and has been harmlessly 
insane since she was sixteen. She lives here, Lucian, in one wing of the 
house. You may probably see her. Though she is constantly attended by a 
faithful nurse, and can rarely be persuaded to quit her room, or even her 
couch, sometimes she becomes restless and wanders over the house : her mind 
is usually in a mazed state. We do not confine her at all ; it has never been 
necessary ; we only watch her ; she goes where she likes usually. Patty is 
always with her, but Aunt Jane is so old she does not want to go about much ; 
she dislikes strangers. It is one never-ceasing cry from her lips after her 
husband. No matter what she may be talking about, in a little while she 
begins to moan for Philip and ask where he is — to wonder that he does not 
come. " Philip stays so long ! he never used to," is her constant cry. To 
think that has been going on for fifty years ! The love of the woman has 
survived everything — youth, beauty, reason. Human hearts are fearful 
things to play or trifle with.' " 



M : 



MRS. MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. 

RS. M. B. WILLIAMS is a native of Baton Rouge, La. Her 
father, Judge Charles Bushnell, came to this State from Massa- 
chusetts within the first decade after the purchase of Louisiana had 
been accomplished, and in due time married into a Creole family of 
substantial endowments and high repute. Judge Bushnell was well 
and favorably known at the bar of Louisiana. He was a gentleman 
of great legal erudition ; but, though devoted to his profession, he 
found time to cultivate the general branches of literature, and to par- 
ticipate in their elegant enjoyments. 

His favorite daughter, Marie, early manifested a studious disposi- 
tion. She was a fair, bright-eyed, spiritual girl, of more than ordi- 
nary promise. Though slight in figure, she was compactly formed. 
Her features were cast in nature's finest mould, and her clear dark 
eye and smooth fair brow were radiant with intellectual light. 

When this description would apply to Miss Bushnell, she became 
the deve of Alexander Dimitry, whose fame as a scholar has since 
become world-wide. The management of a pupil so richly dowered 
with God's best gifts was a pleasing task to the professor, and he soon 
imparted to her not only the fresh instruction which she required, but 
a deep and profound reverence for learning akin to that which he felt 
himself. 

This relation of teacher and scholar continued for several years, 
and was not severed till Miss Bushnell became a complete mistress of 



86 LIVING FEMALE WHITE RS OF THE. SOUTH. 

all the principal modern languages. Indeed, the range of her studies 
was quite extended, and we hazard very little in saying that she was, 
when they were completed, the most learned woman in America. 

At length, when she had rounded into perfect womanhood, physi- 
cally as well as mentally, the honor of an alliance with her was sought 
by many of the proudest and wealthiest gentlemen of Louisiana. The 
successful suitor proved to be Josiah P. Williams, a planter of Rapides, 
and from the date of her marriage, in 1843, she resided near Alexan- 
dria, on Red River, with the exception of a brief experience o£ refugee- 
life in Texas when the war was at its height, until 1869, when she 
removed to Opelousas, La. 

As a wife, and the mother of an interesting family of children, Mrs. 
Williams performed her whole duty. But though the domestic vir- 
tues found in her a true exponent, they by no means lessened her 
interest in literary pursuits. For her own amusement and that of a 
choice coterie of literary friends — her constant visitors — she was 
accustomed to weave together legends of Louisiana, both in prose and 
verse, which soon established her reputation among those who were 
admitted into the charmed circle. She, however, had no fancy for 
the plaudits of the world. For years she refused to appear in print, 
but when at length a few of her articles found their way into literary 
journals, she was at once admitted to an assured position among 
judges as a singer and a teacher. With a vast fund of acquired knowl- 
edge; a mind original, philosophic, and sympathetic; a fancy at once 
brilliant and beautifully simple, added to a mastery of language when 
force of style was found necessary, and an easy, happy facility in all 
the lighter phases of literary effort, — Mrs. M. B. Williams will yet, 
when the world knows her merits and does her justice, take her place 
among- the first of the distinguished women of America. 

We have not before us any complete list of the productions of her 
pen, nor shall we attempt any critical analysis of those specimens 
which are to follow this article. They shall be left to the good taste 
and judgment of our readers, with a full confidence that they cannot 
fail to please. 

We shall merely say, in conclusion, that Mrs. Williams suffered 
severely by the reverses which marked the latter years of the "lost 
cause." The death of her husband was her first great sorrow: the 
destruction of her beautiful residence, "The Oaks," by the vandal fol- 
lowers of Banks in his Red River raid; the wounding of one son; the 
untimely death of another ; the material misfortunes which reduced 



MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. 87 

her from affluence to poverty, — all followed in such disheartening 
succession, that few indeed could have borne up under such a series 
of calamities. But her faith was strong. She could look religiously 
through the storms of the present into the calm and glory of that 
peace which is to come. Few have ever met reverses with greater 
fortitude, or fought the battle of life more bravely. For years past 
she has been a constant and valued contributor to the New Orleans 
"Sunday Times," and while her writings have proved her a brilliant 
thinker, they show no traces of egotistic grief. The sorrows by which 
she has been surrounded are mourned by her only as sorrows common 
to the whole desolated South. 

Mrs. Williams has in preparation, to be published in a volume, 
" Tales and Legends of Louisiana," in a lyrical poem — a poem which 
we hope will introduce tier talents to the whole country, making her 
name familiar as a " household word." 

As a translator from the French, German, and Spanish, Mrs. Wil- 
liams is deservedly successful, her translations from the German lan- 
guage being very felicitous and faithful. 

1868. Mark F. Bigney. 



PLEASANT HILL. 



Eoll my chair in the sunlight, Ninetta, 
Just here near the slope of the hill, 

Where the red bud its soft purple clusters 
Droops down to the swift-flowing rill. 

See the golden-hued wreaths of the jasmine, 
Like stars, through yon coppice of pine, 

While the fringe-tree its white floating banners 
Waves out from the blossoming vine. 

How the notes of the mocking-bird, ringing 
From hillside and woodland and vale, 

Greet the earliest flush of the morning 
With trills of their happy love-tale ! 

Ah ! beauty and music and gladness, 
Ye follow the footsteps of spring ; 

The breeze, in its pure balmy freshness, 

Seems fanned from some bright angel's wing. 



LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Look yonder and see, little daughter, 
Where locust-trees scatter their bloom, 

Have the pansies, in velvet- eyed sadness, 
Peeped yet through the turf near the tomb? 

Nay, then, turn not aside, my Ninetta ; 

The grave of our Walter should gleam 
In the earliest flush of the spring-time — 

The glow of the autumn's last beam. 

For he loved them, the flowers and sunshine, 

The birds, and all beautiful things ; 
But he loved best the dim purple pansy 

That over his resting-place springs. 

Ah ! just there, where that laurel is glancing, 

Just there, in that sink of the dell, 
Came a surge of the deadliest combat, 

Sweeping on in its terrible swell. 

And I saw him, my darling, my treasure, 

My boy with the sunlighted hair ; 
I could see the proud sweep of his banner, 

And the smile that his lip used to wear! 

Ah ! he led them, how bravely, Ninetfca ! 

His voice, with its silver tones, pealed 
Through the hurtling storm of the battle. 

As it swept o'er the blood-streaming field. 

I watched a strange wavering movement, 
I watched from yon low cottage-door, 

Till a riderless horse bounded upward — ■ 
Then I lay with my face to the floor. 

There he lies now, my sunny-haired darling, 

My boy with the frank, fearless eyes ! 
And I fancy to-day that they watched me 

From the depths of the shadowless skies. 

Ah! watching his sorrowful mother, 
, And watching this sorrowful land, 
That his heart's crimson life-tide had moistened 
For the tread of a fanatic band. 



MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. 89 

What ! in tears ? Ah ! my gentle Ninetta, 

Your mother has mourned for her child 
With none of that womanly weakness 

That softens an anguish too wild. 

But I look at his grave in the sunlight, 
And my heart in its radiance grows strong, 

For he died in the flush of his triumph, 
And not in this tempest of wrong. 

Yes, he fell in the heat of the battle, 

Nor dreamed of the thraldom and shame 
Which have blasted this fair Southern valley 

With breath of their ravening flame. 

And his grave, oh ! thank God, is a freeman's ! 

Ay, freely the flowers may wave ; 
No foeman those garlands of honor 

May tear from the sleep of the brave. 

Ah ! take me within, my Ninetta ; 

My gallant young soldier sleeps well; 
And ere the first glow of the summer, 

I too must lay down in the dell. 



[THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK. 

In the ancient annals of Spain, Don Roderick, "ultimo Buy de los Godos" 
occupies a conspicuous position. The royal city of Toledo was his abode, 
and strange indeed are the marvels told of it by the old monkish chroniclers. 
In this city were the necromantic tower of "Pleasure's Pain" and the won- 
drous "Cave of Hercules," the latter of which extended from the centre of 
the city beneath the bed of the Tagus and for three leagues beyond. Toledo 
is declared to have been founded by Tubal, the son of Japhet and grandson 
of Noah ; but whether this be so or not, its existence certainly runs back to a 
very remote period, and its history is full of marvels. Around it are curious 
vaults and subterraneous habitations, supposed to have been the retreat of 
the inhabitants in case of invasion or through fear of floods. "Such a pre- 
caution," says the worthy Don Pedro de Roxas, in his History of Toledo, 
" was natural enough to the first Toledans, seeing that they founded their 
city shortly after the deluge, while the memory of it was still fresh in their 
minds." 

In the posthumous works of Washington Irving, published by his relative, 
12 



90 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Pierre M. Irving, the curiosities of Toledo are treated of at considerable 
length, connected as they are with the legend of Don Roderick. The place 
had always a necromantic tendency, the diabolical mysteries of magic having 
been taught there for many centuries. This was indeed so much the case, 
that the neighboring nations defined magic as the Arte Toledana. 

Irving gleans from the venerable Agapida many mysteries relative to the 
Magic Tower of Toledo, which he relates with great unction. The tower, he 
says, " was round, and of great height and grandeur, erected upon a lofty 
rock, and surrounded by crags and precipices. The foundation was sup- 
ported by four brazen lions, each taller than a cavalier on horseback. The 
walls were built of small pieces of jasper and various colored marbles, not 
larger than a man's hand, so subtly jointed, however, that but for their 
different hues they might have been taken for one entire stone. They were 
arranged with marvellous cunning, so as to represent battles and warlike 
deeds of times and heroes long passed away; and the whole surface was 
so admirably polished that the stones were as lustrous as glass, and re- 
flected the rays of the sun with such resplendent brightness as to dazzle all 
beholders." 

We have written the foregoing as an appropriate introduction to a poem, 
entitled "The Enchanted Tower of Toledo," written by Mrs. M. B. Williams, 
one of the very best of the female writers of America. This poem was writ- 
ten at "The Oaks," a beautiful place in Rapides Parish, near Alexandria, in 
June, 1861. Since then, The Oaks, and the delightful home to which they 
gave their name, have been swept away by the storm of war that passed over 
our beloved land, and nothing remains of them now save sad and desolate 
reminders of the past. 

Soon after a notice appeared in this journal of "Irving's Spanish Papers 
and other Miscellanies," Mrs. Williams wrote to us as follows: "By the way, 
what is that legend of Don Roderick, mentioned in the late collection of 
Irving's fugitive pieces ? I hope he has not anticipated me, for in 1861 I 
wrote a poem (never yet published) on one of the adventures of that monarch, 
which I found in some musty old Spanish legends, never translated in this 
country." With a modesty as creditable to her as her genius, Mrs. "Williams 
adds : " If the great master has anticipated me, my work will lose its only 
merit, originality." 

On this point we feel inclined to take issue with the writer. Her poem 
loses nothing by comparison with the felicitous prose description by him 
whom she has reverently termed "the great master." Indeed, the stately 
march of her rhythmic periods brings the romance of the old legend into 
far bolder relief than it could possibly be presented by the best of prose. — 
Editor N. 0. Times.] 



MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. 91 



THE ENCHANTED TOWER OF TOLEDO. 

"En este torre los Reyes 
Cada uno hecho un canado, 
Porque lo ordinare ansi 
Hercules el afamado, 
Que gano primero a Espana 
De Gerion gran tirano." 
{Romances neuvamento sacados Lorenco de Sepulveda.) 

" Here we meet thee, King Rodrigo ! outside of the city's wall, 
For the words my lips must utter on no other ear can fall ; 
Thou descendant of the Godos, crowned and sceptred King of Spain, 
Thou must listen to the warders of the Tower called Pleasure's Pain. 

"In the first days of this kingdom, when Alcmena's godlike son 
From Geryon's bloody thraldom all this pleasant land had won, 
Midst Toledo's orange-bowers he by strong enchantment's might 
Raised this tower from base to summit in one single summer's night ! 

" Earthly hammers were not sounded, but a passing rush of wings, 
And the sword of bright Orion down its starry scabbard flings ; 
Men grew pale, and women fainted, for the midnight air was filled 
With such sounds that earthly daring in each mortal breast was stilled. 

" But the dewy moon dawned brightly, and the giant's task was done ; 
Pale he looked and sighed right sadly in that golden summer sun : 
' I have locked the Tower of Magic — bid each future king of Spain 
Bolt and bar the dreadful secret, lest he win a bitter pain.' 

"There no human foot must wander — there no human eye must scan, 
Till the tower and secret perish from the memory of man ; 
Fate may send some daring spirit : let him pause and ponder long 
Ere he does his name and country such a deadly, grievous wrong. 

"King Rodrigo, we have spoken ! never did we speak in vain, 
For each king has left his token on the Tower of Pleasure's Pain ; 
Twelve good locks are on the portal ; thine will make the fateful one. 
Sire ! thy royal hand must place it ere the setting of the sun." 

Laugheth loud the King Rodrigo — " Certes, thou hast care for me ; 
But these marvels, gentle warder, I am strangely pressed to see ; 
Never spell of darkest danger but some Christian knight's devoir 
Was to break the curst enchantment, tho' 'twere locked in magic bar." 



92 LIVING FEMALE WEITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 

Looketh round the King Eodrigo : " Knights, ye fight for love and laAvs, 
And ye deal your blows right stoutly for the sake of Holy Cross ; 
But to-day we war with magic in the Tower of Pleasure's Pain ; 
He whose heart beats scant measure, let him shun the coward's shame." 

Looketh up the King Eodrigo ; still his haughty crest of pride 
Sought not aid from earth or heaven, but the fears of both defied ; 
And his bright eye laughed right gayly, and his lips curled scornfully, 
As he marked his comrades shudder, and their heads droop mournfully. 

"Woe unto thee, King Eodrigo ! woe to all the Spanish land, 
When the sacred guard is broken by a monarch's impious hand ! " 
And the hoary warder kneeleth, with his gray head in the dust : 
" Woe to him whose path of power lieth o'er a trampled trust ! " 

" King, we crave thee pause and hearken." Loud the stately footstep rung, 
Louder still the scornful laughter — " We must work ere set of sun ; 
And we pray thee, pious warder, tho' thou lend'st no helping hand, 
Not with idle fears of dotage thus to daunt my gallant band." 

On the brazen lions couchant rose the /tower like a dream ; 

Jasper walls and diamond turrets lave the sunset's latest beam ; 

Twelve good locks are on the portal, and, though struck with might and main, 

Morning's sun rose on the workers ere the inner court they gain. 

There unrolls the strangest vision : pictured walls surround a dome, 
Anadyomene smiles downward from her shell upon the foam, 
And the builder's twelve great labors all in precious stones are wrought, 
Every figure on the fabric with a weird-like motion fraught. 

On a couch of Indian iv'ry rests a giant's marble form, 

And upon its lifeless bosom, lo ! a lettered scroll is borne, 

Golden-lettered, and it readeth to the king's astonished eyes : 

" Woe to thee, O reckless monarch ! thou hast gained the couch of sighs. 

" Thou, O traitor ! thou art fated for this kingdom's overthrow ; 

Thou, whose impious hand would conquer secrets which no man should know, 

Eead thy fate in yonder casket ; let the magic web unfold ; 

Man, thy kingly state must nerve thee till the dreadful tale is told." 

From a casket, gem-enwoven, floated forth a web of white, 
And upon its snowy surface, lo ! a pictured summer night ; 
Sweepeth broad the silvery Tagus, and the shadows of the trees 
Eest upon the starlit waters, rippled by the evening breeze. 



MAEIE B U S H N E L L WILLIAMS. 93 

And 'neath orange-boughs, dew-laden, drooping to the water's side, 
Stands a maiden idly dreaming, casting flowers o'er the tide ; 
Seeking in the stars above her, in the river at her feet, 
Symbols of that first dear fancy whose divine unrest is sweet. 

Scarce a child, and scarce a woman, yet a woman's stately grace 
Lent pride to the broad, white forehead ; though, on the enchanting face 
Lingered still the smile of childhood, that she learned before her speech, 
When her visions were as sinless as the blossoms in her reach. 

But a moment — and the thicket parts before a heavy tread ; 
Shrinks the maiden, and her features quiver with a mortal dread ; 
Mail-clad knight now stands before her, with his barred visor down, 
But above his head appeareth semblance of a golden crown. 

Oh, the pantomime of terror which the magic canvas gave ! 

How the mail-clad knight low pleaded ! how the maiden seemed to rave ! 

Till, with gesture of defiance, like a hawk upon its prey, 

In his grasp he seized the maiden, and the picture passed away. 

" By God's truth," cried King Rodrigo, and his anger, like a flame, 
Reddened, and he clenched his gauntlet — "By God's truth, 'tis bitter shame! 
Who the traitor knight that ventures thus to do this deadly wrong ? 
"Would to heaven he stood before me ; knightly spurs were his too long." 



Woe ! woe ! for the lost Florinda ; ye have read her piteous tale ; 
Woe for the dishonored maiden ! woe for the dishonored knight ! 
Spain ! O Spain ! thy days are numbered ! sinks thy fame in endless night ! 

" Traitor ! ravisher ! Rodrigo — read thy kingdom's blasted fate ! " 
Then the web again unrolleth — lo ! the Moors are at the gate, 
And the Christian tocsin soundeth, but the Paynim horde pour in ; 
Holy cross and knightly helmet sinking with the battle's din. 

Shrill the Tecbir's war-cry ringeth, kettle-drum and atabal 
But above the din of battle rose a woman's frenzied call : 
" Curses on thee, King Rodrigo ! to revenge my deadly wrong, 
I have called the Paynim army, and the Crescent waxeth strong. 

"King Rodrigo ! King Rodrigo ! on thy soul the curse be laid 
Of a Christian maiden ruined, of a Christian land betrayed. 
God will judge between us, monarch, for the closing day draws near, 
And before His throne of justice,, lo ! I bid thee, king, appear ! " 



94 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Then, with wild, unearthly laughter, down the magic web was sent ; 
Sounds of forms of nightmare terror through the dim court came and went ; 
Standeth firm the King Rodrigo — on their knees his knightly band — 
Yet his mortal terror speaketh in blanched brow and trembling hand. 

" Ha, good knights ! ye seem too fearful ; yet, if magic web speaks truth, 
Here stand I a traitor monarch, faithless knight, and lost to ruth. 
St. Iago ! but the mummers played their part with right good will, 
For I hear the Moorish cymbals, and the woman's shriek rings still ! " 

And his trusty sword he lifted : " While this brand my arm can wield, 
I can conquer all these omens in the first good battle-field ! " 
Loud then scoffed the King Rodrigo : "Book of Fate shall ne'er enclose 
Such a page of shame and sorrow — not for me such train of woes." 

Forth from the enchanted tower quickly passed the knightly train, 
Crashed the iron doors behind them, and the locks sprung on again ; 
With a torch within its talons, sweeping round in circling flight, 
Lo ! a golden eagle lighteth on the tower's topmost height. 

With its wings it fanned the fire, till the rushing flames burst forth, 
And a jet of burning crimson sprang up to the farthest north ; 
Quick replies the lightning flashes — loud the answering thunder rolls ; 
Downward sink the couchant lions — like a scroll the tower unfolds. 

Deep within its burning centre, lo ! a funeral banner stood, 
And upon its midnight surface naught save one great wave of blood ; 
But the wave surged up and downward, till a crimson, fiery flash 
Swept the tower from base to summit, and it sank with heavy crash. 

Years of pride, of shame, of anguish o'er the Spanish land have passed, 
And in yonder field of battle Christian rule hath struck its last. 
By the Guadalete's waters, discrowned, dying, and alone, 
Roderick lies, his bitter anguish far too deep for tear or moan. 

O'er his dying vision floateth all that wondrous web of fate — 

Falsest knight, dishonored monarch sueth Heaven's grace too late, 

For above the din of battle rose that summons high and clear : 

"God shall judge between us, traitor ! — at His throne, O King, appear ! " 

The Oaks, June 19, 1861. 



MARIE BUSH NELL WILLIAMS. 95 



THE LAST WILD FLOWER. 

Down in sheltered hollows, or by hillsides, blooms, from November to the 
first severe cold of December, the last wild flower of our Louisiana forest — 
the saponaria or gentian. 

There can be nothing more exquisite than the clear sapphire of these fairy 
bells, rising from the sombre brown of dead grass and faded leaves. So 
bright, so intense in hue, that it needs little stretch of imagination to fancy 
them flakes of the clear blue sky fallen on earth. We have seen them, when 
the winter has been early, rising from snow-drifts, their tender, delicate 
corolla peering above the wintry shroud, a very eye of hope, shining with 
brighter and purer lustre through the chill and gloom of earth. 

Flowers sometimes read us a lesson that needs no headings to make it 
comprehensible to our hearts, for its text was written in the garden of Eden; 
but in the flush of spring, the plenty and gorgeousness of summer, this lesson 
is incomplete. Its highest moral reaches us through the storms and dark- 
ness of winter, when we shrink and shiver in cutting blasts, which seem to 
give fresh vitality to some of the frailest and most delicate creations on God's 
earth. The idea of an Omnipresent protection, adjusting itself to every need, 
somehow presents itself to the mind, and we shelter and nestle under the 
very thought. 

The gentian, too, always a favorite, is now to us a reminiscence of an event 
which, two winters ago, made us very sad. 

In journeying to and fro across the Sabine, one cold day in December, we 
met on its banks, at Burr's Ferry, a refugee train, which, like ourself, was 
detained on the Louisiana side until some repairs had been made on the 
ferry-boat, to enable us to make the "traverse" with safety in that tempest- 
uous weather. Any one who has ever crossed the Sabine in wind and storm 
knows well what a dreary, desolate, dangerous crossing it is. Primitive 
enough, too, with its ropes stretched from bank to bank, by which the ferry- 
man steadies his boat and shapes its course. Should it break, down would 
sweep the frail craft into the wild reaches of the river, and, nine chances to 
ten, either upset or sink there. 

A common danger establishes an immediate sympathy between utter 
strangers, and by the time the leaky ferry-boat was ready for its first load 
we knew the names, the hopes, the fears of the whole party, and even their 
destination. We entered, too, with the liveliest interest into the solicitude 
of an aged couple for the comfort of their invalid daughter — an only child. 
She was a beautiful girl of about seventeen or eighteen, and one glance at 
her pallid, sharpened features, told us that she was nearer the end of her last 
journey than her devoted parents seemed to realize. We had heard of her 
before, — "the Lily of A ," as she was called, — heard of her beauty, 



96 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

accomplishments, and wealth, and we listened with profound compassion to 
the tale told by one of her friends — a tale which showed how little all the 
rich gifts of nature or fortune had availed to shield her from that common 
lot of humanity — sorrow. 

We have no time or space to dwell on particulars. Like many others in 
Louisiana, where the war was carried on in the very yards or parks of the 
planters, she had seen her lover, the gallant Captain F , fall in a skir- 
mish not ten paces from her door. 

The shock, coming upon a constitution more than delicate, had hastened its 

decay, and the Lily of A faded slowly beneath one of those inscrutable 

maladies that have hitherto perplexed and baffled all medical skill. 

More from the restless fancy of an invalid than from any fear of an invad- 
ing army, she had persuaded her parents to join the refugees from the neigh- 
borhood, and they were now en route for Mexico. 

She was made as comfortable on the leaky boat as circumstances would 
admit, but the waves dashed over the low sides and saturated her wrappings. 
In moving her hand restlessly over the side of the boat, a handsome emerald 
ring dropped into the river. She held up her hand with a faint smile. 
"All," she said; "I might have made this sacrifice to destiny with a better 
grace some years ago. It was exceeding happiness that always sought to 
propitiate fate; but I gave up my treasures long since." And she shivered 
and complained of the piercing cold as a wave, larger than the rest, swept 
over the boat, almost swamping it. 

With difficulty we reached the other side, and warming ourselves by a 
large fire built by some German emigrants who were camped on the bank, 
we then made preparations to pass the night in an uninhabited hut by the 
roadside. A large fire was kindled on the hearth, blankets hung against the 
walls to keep out the wind, and every means in our power used to shield the 
invalid at least from exposure. But she insisted on lying near the open door, 
gazing across the swollen, turbid stream at the gloomy pine-forest on the 
Louisiana side. Her large, sad eyes filled by degrees with tears, but by a 
strong effort she kept them back, and gently but firmly resisted ail her 
parents' entreaties to be moved from her exposed situation. 

"Let me look a little longer," she pleaded; "remember, I may never see 

it again. Do you know, I understand now those Polish exiles near A , 

who had brought a little piece of their native soil to lay over their hearts 
when they died. Pour avoir encore des reves de la patrie, they said. Dear 
Louisiana, I never knew before how I loved you." And she lay back ex- 
hausted for some moments. 

Suddenly her eyes were attracted by a flower growing on the sloping bank 
near the water's edge. " Get it for me," she cried, eagerly. We plucked it, 
a long, beautiful spray of gentian, and laid it in her hand. 

" How beautiful J how more than beautiful !" she murmured ; "so trium- 
phant over blight, decay, and even death itself; so redolent of hope and pro- 



MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. 97 

mise; so full, too, of the old happy time." And she pressed it passionately 
to her lips with low, indistinct murmurs. 

"Mamma" — turning to her mother — " do you remember the little tuft 
of gentian near the summer-house at Bienvenue, how it blossomed through 
the frost ; and when a heavy fall of snow at last destroyed it, the blue of the 
petals was as bright, its texture as silky as if living and growing? Beautiful 
Bienvenue ! I almost wish I had not left it. Do you think the orange-tree at 
my window is dead to-day, for this is a piercing wind? " Her mother turned 
aside, almost unable to answer. 

" Thank you," she said to us, " for the gentian. Flowers are my passion, 
and this one, coming to me to-day, amid all this dreariness, seems to have 
brought back the blue sky, hidden by those heavy storm-clouds." 

As night came on, shiverings, and at last delirium, seemed to point to a 
speedy termination of the young life that was now visibly ebbing fast away 
in that lonely log hut on the Sabine. Dumb and paralyzed by their crush- 
ing grief, the parents sat beside her, while pitying friends employed them- 
selves in kind offices. The dying girl seemed unconscious of all her sur- 
roundings ; she was once more in her Louisiana home, babbling of the flow- 
ers she had loved and tended, and of the little gentian by the summer-house. 
No sad or troubled memory seemed to intrude on her peaceful, happy visions. 
The dead might have been with her, but they were once more living and 
loving. 

From the tents of the German emigrants near, at times swelled up some 
song or chant, which seemed to harmonize with the sick girl's dreams, for 
she would smile faintly and listen. The deep, mellow voices at last struck 
into that saddest of all sad melodies — " Die langen, langen Tag." 

Some memory must have been evoked from the profound depths of that 
wail of a breaking heart, for she moved restlessly, and whispered, " My lone 
watch-keeping." But in a second the peaceful look came back, and half 
raising the gentian she still held convulsively in her hand, the broken Lily 
of A was among the fadeless flowers of the Eternal River. 

Thence comes it that the gentian, to us; is full of hope and memory. 
13 



ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 

THIS accomplished daughter of the South, known so long as a poet 
by the sweet, wild title of " Moina," * was born in Georgetown, 
South Carolina. 

Her father, W. F. Shackelford, an eminent lawyer of that State, 
removed, with his youthful daughter, from that city to Charleston, 
where he placed her under the care of the Misses Ramsay, daughters 
of the celebrated Dr. D. Ramsay. Inheriting from her father a talent 
for poetry and a delicacy of taste, she also received from him the en- 
couragement of her youthful genius, and the development of her 
refined and graceful word-painting. 

At the early age of fourteen, her young heart was given to J. C. 
Dinnies, a gentleman of New York, but then settled in St. Louis, Mo., 
and, preferring the white flowers of true affection and manly worth 
to the lonely laurel crown, " Moina " encircled her fair brow with an 
orange wreath, and her young life with a true, devoted love. 

Though married to one capable of monopolizing all her thoughts 
and worthy of all her young heart's devotion,still, in her hours of leisure, 
Mrs. Dinnies found a delight in expressing in words the deep feelings 
of happiness that welled up from her poetic soul ; and sweet as the 
notes of a happy bird were the songs which issued from the serene and 
quiet home of the youthful poet-wife. 

Many of her published pieces were written before her marriage, 
though they still hold a high and honored place in American litera- 
ture. The history of the " Charnel Ship " has been read and admired 
by youthful hearts and sober heads ; yet few dreamed that a child 
had penned those thrilling words ■" which filled each heart with fear." 

A number of Mrs. Dinnies's most valuable manuscripts were de- 
stroyed by fire in St. Louis — among them a long poem, nearly finished, 
in six cantos, and several tales ready for publication ; but too happy to 
write for fame, and only caring to speak in song when feeling prompted 

* Mrs. Dinnies adopted the signature of " Moina " when quite young. Since the close 
of the war, Reverend Father Ryan, author of " The Conquered Banner," and other 
poems, has used the same pseudonym. 
98 



ANNA PEYEE DONIE8. 99 

imagination or suggested subjects worthy of her pen, " Moina " sought 
not to retrieve the loss. 

In November, 1846, Mr. Dinnies removed to New Orleans, and it 
was during their residence in the Crescent City that there fell upon the 
heart and home of the poetess a shadow which, as yet, neither time 
nor friendship has ever brightened. To her had been given the sweet 
task of watching the opening mind of a lovely gifted daughter — one 
who inherited all her parents' nobleness and worth, and who, had she 
been spared, might well have shared her mother's laurels. But this 
bright young creature, this idol of a mother's heart, this fair reality 
of a poet's dream, was called in her earliest girlhood from earth to 
heaven. Over this broken flower, " Moina " bowed her head in an- 
guish ; but engraving upon her daughter's tombstone the sacred, con- 
soling words, " Sursum Corda" she wrote the same upon her heart. 
And in the sweet sad songs of " Kachel," we have seen and felt that, 
though a mother's heart be crushed, a poet's " soul is lifted upward " 
on the wings of grief and resignation. Mrs. Dinnies's poetry, like 
everything connected with this gifted woman, breathes of refinement 
and imagination, mirroring forth the purity of her heart and the high 
culture of her poetic nature. Always sweet and melodious, it rings at 
times with martial tones and thrilling eloquence, capable of arousing 
the soldier's enthusiasm for his country, or the fond devotion of woman 
for all that is good and holy. She does not deal in a profusion of 
words — for it seems to be her peculiar talent to find the fittest ex- 
pression for her beautiful ideas — thus allowing them to shine forth in 
all their native strength, through their graceful coloring of language. 

But it is at home that Mrs. Dinnies realizes her own beautiful illus- 
tration of the white chrysanthemum ; or rather it is in that charmed 
setting that the gifted poetess appears as the " peerless picture of a 
modest wife," beaming with love and tenderness upon her husband's 
home and heart, and shedding upon all who enter the circle of her 
influence the charms of intellect and the blessings of woman's kindly 
heart. 

In 1847 appeared the only volume Mrs. Dinnies has published. 
" The Floral Year," in the style of an annual, was published in Bos- 
ton. The volume is entirely original. Its design is novel and happy. 
It consists of one hundred poems, arranged in twelve collections. 
Each one of these illustrates a bouquet of flowers, such as may generally 
be culled in the garden or the green-house during its appropriate month ; 



100 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

and the flowers in each bouquet are illustrated individually and collec- 
tively. Thus the charm of unity is added to the beautiful fancies and 
pure sentiments that are thus thrown upon the waters like a garland 
from the garden of the Muses. 

One reviewer said: "'The Floral Year' may be justly considered 
as a work of art throughout. By its design, the flower is adapted to 
the sentiment, and the sentiment to the poem. When the one is of a 
character that rises to passion, the other is distinguished by power of 
thought, feeling, and expression. But when the sentiment is of a gentle 
or negative sort, the poem is remarkable for its simplicity, beauty, and 
melody." 

While residing in St. Louis, in 1845, Mrs. Dinnies edited a news- 
paper, " The Chaplet of Mercy," for a Fair for the benefit of orphans. 
The contents of this paper were entirely original, and some of the 
most distinguished writers of the country contributed. After re- 
moving to New Orleans, several years elapsed without her publishing 
anything, except a few fugitive pieces in the newspapers. In 1854, 
she contributed a series of didactic articles, under the head of " Rachel's 
What-Not," to the " Catholic Standard," a weekly journal edited by 
her husband ; and also a series of " Random Readings," consisting of 
short extracts from various authors, with comments or reflections by 
herself. 

Just before the war, Mrs. Dinnies commenced calling in the stray 
children of her brain, intending to place them in some kind of order, 
and perhaps publish them in one or more volumes. She had revised 
and transcribed about twenty tales, when New Orleans was captured, 
and the arrest of Mr. 'Dinnies and imprisonment, by order of Gen. B. 
F. Butler, caused her to put aside her design for more "prosperous 
times. Mr. Dinnies's health — first broken during his imprisonment at 
Forts Jackson and Pickens — continued to decline until he became a 
confirmed invalid ; and her heart and thoughts were so occupied by 
the condition of his health, that she lost all interest in everything save 
the means of restoring his constitution. In a poem, written when she 
was little more than a child, she seemed to have a prevision of her fate. 
" These lines have much sweetness, and flow from a deep fountain of 
earnest feeling." 

" I could have stemmed misfortune's tide, 
And borne the rich one's sneer; 



ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 101 

Have braved the haughty glance of pride, 

Nor shed a single tear ; 
I could have smiled on every blow 

From Life's full quiver thrown, 
While I might gaze on thee, and know 

I should not be 'alone/' 

" I could — I think I could have brooked, 

E'en for a time, that thou 
Upon my fading face hadst looked 

With less of love than now ; 
For then I should at least have felt 

The sweet hope still my own, 
To win thee back, and, whilst thou dwelt 

On earth, not been ' alone / ' 

"But thus to see from day to day 

Thy brightening eye and cheek, 
And watch thy life-sands waste away, 

Unnumbered, slow, and meek; 
To meet thy look of tenderness, 

And catch the feeble tone 
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, 

And feel I'll be 'alone/'— 

11 To mark thy strength each hour decay, 

And yet thy hopes grow stronger, 
As filled with heavenward trust, they say, 

' Earth may not claim thee longer : ' — 
Nay, dearest ! 'tis too much ; this heart 

Must break when thou art gone; 
It must not be — we may not part — 

I could not live 'alone/'" 

Mrs. Dinnies is a resident of the Crescent City, where she is beloved 
and revered by her friends. 

" There are few American writers whose productions have met with more 
uniform approbation than the poems of Anna Peyre Dinnies. Entirely free 
from affectation, they never offend the critic by the inflated or the meretri- 
cious. On the contrary, they are distinguished by the correct elegance that 
is the characteristic of some minds in letters, as it is the trait of high breed- 
ing in society. Nor does it in her appear to be the result of study or of art, 
but it sits gracefully upon her, as if it sprung naturally from intuition," says 
a writer in the " Southern Literary Messenger." 



102 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

A poet, in noticing her poems, says : " They are full of feeling, expression, 
melody, and their words fall upon the heart like distant music, awakening 
the startled memories of all life's pleasant things, and flinging over the soul 
its fine net of captivating sounds. Her images are clear, her expression free, 
as if the heart itself were touched by the contemplation of its own bright 
and fanciful creations." 

The writer quoted above says : " We would style her writings the poetry 
of the affections. Not deficient in imagination, but abounding more in the 
every-day emotions of life than those which depend upon unusual events to 
call them into play, the heart, especially the female heart, is the instrument 
upon which she delights to show her skill, and its chords vibrate to her touch 
as freely and truly as the harp gives forth its melody to the master's prac- 
tised hand. 

"The thoughtful Shelley defines poetry to be 'the expression of the imag- 
ination.' To the feeling Mo'ina, it is the language of the heart. She utters 
its syllables in tones of sweetness, frames its sentences with the nice percep- 
tions of art, and speaks with the energy of deep emotion. Her style is seldom 
diffuse, and rarely redundant in tropes and figures. Who cannot recall to 
his mind the bright days of his early youth, when the keen and refined per- 
ceptions of the soul, with all the freshness of a vernal morn, were first awak- 
ened to the glories and the beauties of nature; when the universe was a great 
volume, every page of which was eloquent with a deep and mysterious lore, 
filling the whole soul with astonishment and delight; when the heart thrilled 
to all external influences, as the iEolian strings that are hung amid the trees 
respond in melody to the soft-breathed wooings of the passing zephyr? And 
feeling thus, the world of Moina is the heart — the heart is her universe — 
the heart the great volume whose pages she loves to illustrate. 

" The strong fountains of passion burst from their hidden depths at her 
command, and pour forth their floods of tenderness, disdain, or scorn. The 
gentle streams of sentiment rise at her behest, and flow in gladness and 
beauty through her strain. ' The cataract of thought ' comes rushing up 
from the recesses of the soul. The pleasant dreams of fancy awaken at her 
call. Love, hope, faith, and confidence glow in her songs ; while pride, am- 
bition, scorn, and despair are admirably portrayed in some of her effusions. 
The lighter emotions, possessing in themselves less of the poetic, are not 
often the subjects of her choice. The ludicrous she seems to avoid as undig- 
nified, and the sarcastic as unfeminine. The wild and mysterious excite her 
fancy, and lead it to speculations upon primal causes, which result in poems 
of a highly religious character. The beautiful in nature and art also leads 
her to the contemplation of the Divine Author of all beauty, and awakens 
melodies filled at once with hope, devotion, and faith in a brighter world. 
The flowers fill her with sweet associations and glowing fancies. The winds 
whisper of danger, and teach her own dependence upon a Higher Power. 
The stars, the clouds, the moonbeams, all hold strange companionship 



ANNA PEYEE DINNIES. 103 

with her spirit, bearing it afar from earth. Music touches the sealed foun- 
tains in her bosom, and excites or saddens according to the strain. Deeds 
of daring, acts of magnanimity, feelings of gratitude, all create the poetic 
inspiration. These are the materiel from which she culls, combines, and 
arranges her fancies into verse." 

186S. Mrs. S. B. E. 



THE LOVE-LETTER. 



The full-orbed moon 
In regal splendor proudly tracked the sky ; 
And the fair laughing flowers of early June 
Slept, fanned by Zephyr as he floated by ; 
The night was hushed, but beautifully clear, 
As though enchantment late had wandered there, 
And left her charm unbroken ; so profound 
The deep tranquillity that reigned around. 

Close to an open casement, which o'erhung 
The quiet scene, there pensively sate one, 
Who gazed, not on the loneliness thus flung 
Over the earth beneath, but sad and lone, 
Held converse w T ith her soul. 

She was not fair; 
Beauty had set no impress on her brow, 
Nor genius shed his heaven-caught lustre there; 
Yet there was one who loved her, and whose vow 
Was met with all that tenderness which dwells 
Only in woman's heart ; those fancy spells 
That poets dream of. 

Now within her hand 
She clasped a letter ; every line was scanned 
By the pure moonbeams round her brightly thrown ; 
She murmured half aloud, in love's own tone, 
His last and dearest w T ords; her warm tears fell 
Upon that line, and dimmed the name she loved so well ! 

" Cease not to think of me," yet once again 

She read — then answered in this heartfelt strain: 



104 LIVING FEMALE WKITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

I could not hush that constant theme 

Of hope and reverie; 
For every day and nightly dream, 
Whose lights across my dark brain gleam, 

Is filled with thee. 
I could not bid those visions spring 

Less frequently, 
For each wild phantom which they bring, 
Moving along on fancy's wing, 

But pictures thee. 
I could not stem the vital source 

Of thought, or be - 
Compelled to check its whelming force, 
As ever in its onward course 

It tells of thee. 
I could not, dearest! thus control 

My destiny, 
"Which bids each new sensation roll 
Pure from its fountain in my soul 

To life and thee. 



THE BLUSH. 



An outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace." 
Was it unholy? Surely no! 

The tongue no purer thought can speak, 
And from the heart no feeling flow 

More chaste than brightens woman's cheek. 
How oft we mark the deep-tinged rose 

Soft mantling where the lily grew ; 
Nor deem that where such beauty blows 

A treacherous thorn's concealed from view. 
That thorn may touch some tender vein, 

And crimson o'er the wounded part, 
Unheeded, too, a transient pain 

Will flush the cheek and thrill the heart. 
On Beauty's lids the gem-like tear 

Oft sheds its evanescent ray ; 
But scarce is seen to sparkle, ere 

'T is chased by beaming smiles away. 
Just so the Blush is formed and flies, 

Nor owns reflection's calm control ; 
It comes — it deepens — fades and dies — 

A gush of feeling from the soul! 



JULIA PLEASANTS CRESWELL. 

A WONDERFULLY clever writer ! " exclaimed a critic, one who 
was well acquainted with her writings. The poetry of Mrs. 
Creswell is fall of sweetness and gentleness; and, as has been said 
of Felicia Hemans's poetry, so can we truly say of the verse of the sub- 
ject of this notice, viz. : "That it is of a soft, subdued enthusiasm, 
breathing, moreover, throughout such a trusting and affectionate spirit, 
that it must ever find a welcome and a rest in all true, loving hearts." 

Mrs. Creswell has a right to expect an inheritance of talent on both 
sides of her house. Her father belonged to the Pleasants family, of 
Virginia, which has contributed several distinguished names to the 
annals of that State. John Hampton Pleasants, of Richmond, who 
fell in the famous Ritchie duel ; Governor James Pleasants, among the 
dead; and Hugh R. Pleasants* among the living, are not unknown to 
fame. The Pleasants are from Norfolk, an old family of England, 
which I judge, from its recurring in the pages of Macaulay and other 
historians occasionally, maintained an honorable position centuries 
back. The first emigrants to this country embraced the tenets of 
William Penn, and for more than a hundred years his numerous 
descendants, who have spread all over the United States, preserved 
that faith. Everything concerning the history of so gifted a woman 
as Julia Pleasants Creswell is interesting, and the following, relating 
to her ancestors, is of interest : " John Pleasants," says my Virginia 
correspondent, "emigrated to this country in the year 1665, the 
' animus mirabilis ' of Dryden, and settled in the county of Henrico. 
He left two sons: the younger inherited the estate called Pickernockie, 
now owned by Boyd and Edmond, on the Chickahominy. From this 
his descendants were called ' Pickanockies.' " 

From this younger branch of the family sprung the names I have 
mentioned above. The Pleasants blood has been blent with some of 
the finest old families in Virginia — the Jeffersons, the Randolphs, the 
Madisons. 

My correspondent says : " The family have generally been very hon- 

*Died in 1870. 
34 105 



106 LIVING FEMALE WEITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 

est people, and quite remarkable for intelligence ; very few of them, 
however, have been distinguished in public life, their besetting sins 
being indolence and diffidence ! " 

Tarleton Pleasants, Mrs. Creswell's grandfather, was a highly edu- 
cated and accomplished gentleman, to judge from his finely written 
letters. He was ninety-four years old when he died. His means were 
limited, and Mrs. Creswell's father left his home in Hanover county 
at the age of sixteen to push his own fortunes. He sojourned awhile 
in the Old Dominion State as printer's boy, and then as sub-editor. 
The Territory of Alabama was then attracting the Western world, and 
he went thither, landing at Huntsville, one of the earliest settlers. 
His popular manners won him golden opinions from all, and he was 
elected to the office of Secretary of State, Thomas Bibb being at that 
time Governor of the State. Mr. Pleasants married the second daugh- 
ter of the Governor. 

Julia was the second child of the marriage. Soon after his mar- 
riage, Mr. Pleasants abandoned politics, and engaged in mercantile 
life. Ex-Governor Bibb owned immense estates, and Julia was, so to 
speak, reared in the lap of luxury. Mr. Pleasants wrote with ease 
and facility, having a fondness for the pursuit. From childhood 
Julia was fond of fashioning her thoughts in rhyme, and her father 
fostered the inclination. He was especially solicitous to secure to his 
children all the advantages of which, in some measure, his own youth 
had been deprived, and Julia was indeed fortunate in having for eight 
years the instruction of a very superior woman. With pleasure I give 
the meed of praise to one of the many teachers with whom "teaching" 
is a noble employment, not mere drudgery, who deserve a great reward 
for their well-doing, albeit they seldom receive it in this life. Miss 
Swift (from Middleton, Vermont) was a remarkable woman — one 
who always acted on the broad ground that learning is dear for itself 
alone ; and in her admirable school no prizes were held out to cause 
heart-burnings and deception — no dreadful punishments to intimidate 
the fearful and appall the wicked. The consciousness of having done 
well was the only reward, and the sweet satisfaction of knowledge 
gained the happiness. Miss Swift was selected by Governor Slade, of 
New York, to take charge of a Normal school, designed for the edu- 
cation of teachers for Oregon. Says Charles Lanman, in his "Adven- 
tures in the Wilds of America " — 2 vols. 1854 — alluding to the sub- 
ject of this sketch : 



JULIA PLEASANTS CRESWELL. 107 

" But of all the impressions made upon me during my visit to Huntsville, 
the most agreeable by far was made by Julia Pleasants, the young and accom- 
plished poetess. She is as great a favorite in the entire South, as she is in 
this, her native town, and is destined to be wherever the thoughts of genius 
can be appreciated. She commenced her literary career by contributing an 

occasional poem to the ' Louisville Journal.' Born and bred in the 

lap of luxury, it is a wonder that the intellect of Miss Pleasants should have 
been so well disciplined, as its fruits, in spite of their unripeness, would leave 
one to suppose it had been. But death having recently made her an orphan, 
and taken from her side a much-loved sister, she has been schooled in the 
ways of Providence, as well as of the world, and now, when she strikes the 
lyre, it responds chiefly in those tones which find a resting-place in her sor- 
rowing heart. Like Mrs. Hemans, Miss Pleasants is a thinker and writer of 
high order, and her mission upon earth cannot but be both beautiful and 
profitable." 

Miss Pleasants' cousin, Thomas Bibb Bradley, a gifted, ambitious, 
ardent, and aspiring young poet, who died at an early age, (" a bril- 
liant bud of promise was cut off in him,") first drew her poems from 
their obscurity, and startled her timid bashfulness by launching them 
upon the " sea of publicity." The generous spirit of George D. Pren- 
tice found kind and tender things to say of her timid fledglings of the 
imagination. 

Mr. T. B. Bradley gathered up some of his own and his cousin's 
poems, and brought out a joint volume in 1854. Mrs. Creswell says, 
in alluding to this volume : 

" The book was not creditable to me, and still less so to my cousin. My own 
poems were disfigured by misprints, and only one in the book is a fair sample 
of my cousin's brilliant powers. He was younger than myself, and at that 
age when a writer falls readily into the style of the last author he has been 

reading There is one poem in the book — ' My Sister ' — giving the 

full sweep of his wing, which the lovers of true music will not willingly let 
die. I have no hesitation in saying that it challenges criticism, and is, with- 
out doubt, one of the most perfect poems in our language." 

Miss Pleasants was left an orphan by the simultaneous death of her 
parents, after which she resided several years with her grandmo- 
ther, Mrs. Bibb. Here she lost her sister Addie, about whom she 
sang her sweetest songs. In 1854, she was married to Judge David 



108 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Creswell, a man of talents, and a native of South Carolina. Judge 
Creswell was a wealthy planter near Shreveport, La., but lost his 
wealth by the war, and has resumed the practice of the law. 

Mrs. Creswell has a volume of poems ready for publication. Clax- 
ton, Remsen and Haffelfinger, of Philadelphia, in 1868, published a 
novel written by her, entitled Callamura. 

" Greenwood," the home of Mrs. Creswell, is near Shreveport, La. ' 
Here she is the centre of a happy circle, surrounded by a quartette of 
children, of whom the only daughter, named Adrienne, (the nom de 
plume under which Mrs. Creswell first published,) having inherited 
the poetic temperament, at the early age of ten dabbles in " rhymes." * 

1S68. 



THE MINSTEEL PILOT. 

On the bosom of a river 

Where the sun unloosed its quiver, 

Or the starlight streamed forever, 

Sailed a vessel light and free: 
Morning dewdrops hung, like manna, 
On the bright folds of her banner, 
While the zephyr rose to fan her 

Softly to the radiant sea. 

At her prow a pilot, beaming 

In the hues of youth, stood dreaming, 

And he was in glorious seeming, 

Like an angel from above : 
Through his hair the breezes sported ; 
And as down the wave he floated, 
Oft that pilot, angel-throated, 

Warbled lays of hope and love. 

Through those locks, so brightly flowing, 
Buds of laurel-bloom were blowing, 
And his hands, anon, were throwing 
Music from a lyre of gold : 



JULIA PLEASANTS CEESWELL. 109 

Swiftly down the stream he glided, 
Soft the purple waves divided, 
And a rainbow arch abided 
On his canvas' snowy fold. 

Anxious hearts, with fond emotion, 
Watched him sailing to the ocean, 
Praying that no wild commotion 

'Midst the elements might rise: 
And he seemed some young Apollo, 
Charming summer winds to follow, 
While the water-flag's corolla 

Trembled to his music sighs. 

But those purple waves, enchanted, 

Boiled beside a city haunted 

By an awful spell, which daunted 

Every comer to her shore : 
Nightshades rank the air encumbered, 
And pale marble statues numbered 
Lotus-eaters, where they slumbered, 

And awoke to life no morel 

Then there rushed with lightning quickness 
O'er his face a mortal sickness, 
While the dews in fearful thickness 

Gathered o'er his temples fair; 
And there rolled a mournful murmur 
Through the lovely Southern summer, 
As that beauteous Pilot-comer 

Perished by that city there. 

Still rolls on that radiant river, 
And the sun unbinds his quiver, 
On the starlit streams forever, 

On its bosom as before; 
But that vessel's rainbow banner 
Greets no more the gay savanna, 
And that Pilot's lute drops manna 
On the purple waves no more! 



M. SOPHIE HOMES. 

("Millie Mayfieia.") 

THE subject of the present sketch, Mrs. Mary Sophie Shaw Homes, 
was born in Frederick City, Maryland ; but having resided in 
Louisiana nearly all her life, she claims it as the State of her adoption. 
She is the daughter of Thomas Shaw, of Annapolis, Md., who for over 
twenty years filled with honor the situation of cashier of the Frederick 
County Branch Bank of Maryland, and was a man beloved and highly 
respected by all who knew him. On her mother's side, her ancestors 
were good old Maryland Revolutionary stock, two of her great-uncles 
having fallen, in defence of their rights as freemen, at the battle of 
Germantown. After her father's death, which happened when she 
was quite a child, her mother removed with her family to New Orleans, 
where Mrs. Homes has since resided. She has been twice married: her 
first husband, Mr. Norman Rogers, dying in the second year of their 
union, she was left a widow at a very early age, and her life has been 
one of strange vicissitudes ; but by nature she is energetic, resolute, 
and determined, and although not hopeful, is very enduring ; and, as 
a friend once said of her, "possesses the rare qualification of content- 
ment in an humble position, with capacities for a most elevated one." 
She appeared before the literary world of New Orleans under the 
nom deplume of "Millie Mayfield," in 1857, as a newspaper contri- 
butor of essays, sketches, and poems, which (to quote from one of the 
leading journals of New Orleans, the "Daily Crescent") "could not 
fail of attracting attention from the unmistakable evidences of genius 
they displayed, the poetry being far above mediocrity, and the sketches 
spirited and entertaining ; " so that when, in the same year, her first 
published volume in prose, entitled " Carrie Harrington ; or, Scenes in 
New Orleans," made its appearance, the public was prepared to give 
it a most favorable reception. Of this book, Mrs. L. Virginia French 

thus wrote: "This is a most agreeable and readable book The 

style is easy, natural, and unostentatious There is a vein of 

genial humor running through the whole book." 
110 



M. SOPHIE HOMES. Ill 

A writer in the "New Orleans Crescent" reviews " Carrie Harring- 
ton ; or, Scenes in New Orleans : " 

"This is a new and charming work by a Southern lady — the maiden effort, 
I may say, in novelistic literature, by one who is already favorably known 
to our State as a sweet poetess; for few are they who have read and not been 
pleased with the truthful emanations in harmonious numbers from the 
accomplished pen of ' Millie Mayfield.' 

"Having just risen from a careful perusal of it, I can honestly pronounce it 
a work replete with refreshing thoughts, expressed with a flowing happiness 
of diction, supplying, at this season of the year particularly, a great deside- 
ratum, as all can't-get-aways and even run-aways across the lake will admit. 

" This the writer is constrained to confess, despite his predisposition to be 
hypercritical, — he had almost said unfriendly to it, because, perhaps, of its 
being the production of a petticoat, — an institution spreading, as all the 
world knows, pretty considerably nowadays, — when he sat down to glance 
at its contents. Agreeably surprised, he was taught a lesson of the supreme 
folly of preconceived impressions, which he will not easily forget. The 
authoress of Carrie Harrington has in this novelette — if I may so term it, 
being in one volume, and yet as suggestive of thought and promotive of 
reflection, if not as well calculated to enchain attention and challenge admi- 
ration as many three-volumed novels written by established favorites of the 
reading public, and which, for the most part, answer to a charm Pollok's 
description of one, viz., ' A novel was a book three-volumed and once read, 
and oft crammed full of poisonous error, blackening every page, and oftener 
still of old deceased, putrid thought, and miserable incident, at war with 
nature, with itself and truth at war ; yet charming still the greedy reader 
on, till, done, he tried to recollect his thoughts, and nothing found but dream- 
ing emptiness,' — in this little work, I say, she has given an earnest of the 
possession of talent of a very high order in this branch of light literature. 
There is nothing labored about it — a great blessing to readers ; for elabora- 
tion, when apparent, is generally painful, at least to me. The characters 
spring into existence in rapid succession — take and keep their places, while 
the individuality of each is maintained with tolerable integrity, and seem- 
ingly drawn from life by one who has diligently exercised the faculty for 
observation. I would not, however, be understood to say that in their por- 
trayal there are no inequalities — no inelegancies — no infelicities — no 
redundances ; or that she is au fait in their introduction : better marshal- 
ling there might have been, which accomplishment can only be attained by 
practice, for there is no royal road to perfection, even for women, gifted as 
they are with intuition. ' 

"Many of the scenes, though far from being faultless, sparkle with talent, 
and talent is something ; but here and there she betrays a want of tact, and 
that, while not absolutely talent, is everything in every undertaking; for, as 



112 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

somebody has somewhere said, sententiously, 'talent is power — tact, skill; 
talent is weight — tact, momentum; talent knows what to do — tact, how to 
do it ; it is the eye of discrimination, the right hand of intellect,' — and so 
it is slipping into one's good graces as a billiard-ball insinuates itself into 
the pocket. The story is pleasingly simple and purely domestic — opening 
not in the hackneyed style to which so many of our novelists are notoriously 
addicted; such as a 'solitary horseman' was approaching a wood in time to 
rescue some beauty in distress, etc. ; or, as a ' handsome stranger/ apparently 
on the shady side of thirty, leg-weary and foot-sore, arriving about sunset at 
a village inn, just in season to play the eavesdropper to a conversation, in 
which he learns wonders regarding himself, etc. 

"The hall-door bell of Judge Loring's aristocratic mansion being vigorously 
rung, announces a visitor whose business would seem not to brook delay— 
and so it proves ; for in waddles the pussy, fussy, garrulous, go-a-headative 
Mrs. Percival, with her everlasting exclamation of ' Lawful sakes alive ! ' to 
the great dismay and disgust of the haughty beauty, Isabelle Loring, who 
happens at home alone, with her hair in paper against an entertainment to 
be given in the evening, at which she fondly anticipates the conquest of 
Horace Nelson's heart. In no very amiable mood, but with many an 
unfriendly wish, does the proud girl hastily brush herself into presentable- 
ness, and descends to the parlor, where, with a smile that would rival that 
of a seraph in glory — though with sorrow be it observed, expressly got up 
for the occasion by hypocrisy — she greets her visitor, who is all impatience 
to declare her mission. 

"Unromantic, plain, matter-of-fact, coarsely spoken is Mrs. Percival — 
blunt to rudeness, and generous to a fault ; and while indulging a vulgarity 
indigenous to her nature, and peculiarly offensive to * ears polite,' display- 
ing a heart as large as creation — so that we cannot help loving her, and 
owning that 'even her failings lean to virtue's side.' In speech — and she is 
flippant enough in all conscience — she is a second edition of Mrs. Malaprop, 
constantly mispronouncing and misapprehending words ; for example : she 
talks complacently of her ' morey-antic,' (moire antique;) says 'swarry' when 
she would say soiree; ' infermation ' for inflammation; ' portfully ' for port- 
folio, and so forth. Isabelle Loring has received a liberal education — con- 
tracted grand ideas of upper-tendom, and being surpassingly beautiful, 
womanlike, requires no ghost from the grave to tell her so. Devoted to 
dress, magnificent in foreign airs, and inordinately fond of admiration, 
reminding us, in the matter of pride, and in that only, of Pauline Deschap- 
pelles, for there the likeness ends — as Pauline is not without redeeming 
points — and, when crossed in desire, in some respects,* of Lady Sneerwell. 
I have been thus particular, as these personages — the very antipodes of each 
other — play respectively important parts in the story. 

"Mrs. Percival blurts out her errand in her accustomed manner, which is 
one of mercy, and is referred to mamma, who is at Aunt Langdon's, whither 



M. SOPHIE HOMES. 113 

Mrs. Percival directs her hurried steps, and in her haste almost runs foul of 
Miss Letty at the street-door — a malicious piece of dry-goods, unworthy of 
the institution of calico, and rejoicing in the twofold occupation of dress- 
maker and scandal-monger. Miss Letty, in giving vent to her envy, bristles 
up and talks waspishly of Mrs. Percival's low origin, much to the edification 
of Isabelle, who is jealous of the exceeding loveliness of Mrs. Percival's only 
daughter and child, Ella. Ella, the pure-minded, the devoted, whom we 
could have wished had been made the heroine instead of Carrie, all beauti- 
ful and dutiful as she is, as we have often wished, when reading the ' Ivan- 
hoe ' of Scott, that the high-souled Eebecca had been preferred to the less 
interesting Rowena. 

" Ella, like Isabelle, is enamored of Horace Nelson, but widely different are 
their loves ; the one modestly conceals, the other coquettishly displays. At a 
party where they all meet, they discover that they are rivals, and, as it would 
seem to Ella, without hope of success on her part. The effect of this discov- 
ery is the loss of the roses from her cheek, which her mother observing and 
mistaking the cause, talks funnily enough of dosing the love-stricken girl 
with salts ! Not a bad idea, by-the-by ; we have faith in salts and senna, 
even for the correction of the malady of love. A heavenly creature is Ella, 
notwithstanding that she is the child of vulgar parents of mushroom growth 
into opulence ! Horace Nelson is a fine young fellow, the scion of a family 
amply endowed with pride of birth, and dependent on a rich, gouty old uncle, 
who, in his bitter hostility to parvenuism, insists on his nephew marrying a 
full-blooded aristocrat on pain of disinheritance. Hard as is the alternative, 
the noble youth declares his love to Ella and his independence of the uncle, 
goes to woo the fickle goddess in the auriferous fields of California and Aus- 
tralia, returns with a pocket full of rocks, and marries the ever-faithful Ella. 

" Carrie Harrington and her brother Eobert are left unexpectedly in a de- 
plorable state of orphanage, when the good Mrs. P. opportunely appears, 
takes the distracted Carrie home with her, intending to adopt her, where, 
thanks to the excellent nursing of Ella, the health of the bereaved one is in 
due time re-established. The brother goes to sea. No sooner is Carrie herself 
again than she is afflicted with conscientious scruples as to eating the bread 
of idleness, and, after a scene, resolves to seek a public-school teachership, 
which, by the aid *of Mr. Percival, she obtains, and makes acquaintance at 
the same time with a highly' mercurial lady (Katy), who makes merry at the 
expense of the school-board with a wickedness of elegance richly meriting 
castigation. This, it is needless to add, refers to days of yore ; for, as the 
Frenchman would say, nous avons change tout cele maintenant. Out of this 
acquaintance there grows a warm and lasting friendship between Carrie and 
Katy. The gouty old uncle, disgusted with the plebeianism of his nephew's 
amatory proclivities, proposes marriage to Isabelle, who, out of sheer spite to 
the same individual, accepts. 

"They cross the lake, and meet at one of the watering-places, the Perc.ivals, 
15 



114 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Carrie, and Katy, and there marvel on marvel occurs. Edward Loring owns 
the soft impeachment to Carrie, who, nothing loth, frankly reciprocates. Is- 
abelle heartlessly neglects her lord, who is hopelessly confined to his bed — 
suffers some French count to make illicit love to her, and elopes with him to 
find a watery grave. The shock of this elopement accelerates the death of 
the old uncle, who, before dying, recognizes in Carrie his grandchild. A por- 
tion of his vast wealth she of course inherits, and becomes the loved wife of 
the happy Edward Loring. Robert returns from a prosperous voyage, sees 
and straightway falls in love with Katy, who, like a sensible widow that she 
is, and none the worse for being ' second-hand,' takes compassion upon him 
after the most approved fashion, and ' all goes merry as a marriage-bell.' 

"Such is an outline of the story. In conclusion, I cannot help expressing 
my admiration of Katy ; she is the very ' broth ' of a woman, brimful of 
fun, talks like a book, dealing extensively in refined irony, and often dropping 
remarks which fall and blister like drops of burning sealing-wax. Sometimes, 
however, her drollery outstrips her discretion and overleaps the boundary of 
propriety, acquiring a broadness hardly blameless, as in the quotation some- 
what profanely applied, the hoop-fashion being the subject of conversation : 
' Though their beginning was small, yet their latter end should greatly in- 
crease.' The scenes and passages I would especially commend for truthful- 
ness and raciness, are those of love between Carrie and Edward ; of bathing, 
when one of the girls roguishly cries out, ' A shark I ' and Mrs. P. innocently 
sits on the emplatre of a French woman ; and of the bal masque, at which the 
count, who, like Esau, ' is a hairy man,' is caught toying with the bejew- 
elled finger of Isabelle. 

"The work, as I have already intimated, though not without blemishes, 
evidently bears the marks of genius, a little too freakish, at times, it is true ; 
and if, as I understand, it was written for amusement, rather than with a view 
to publication, it is a highly creditable effort, and bespeaks a talent whose 
cultivation it would be a pity, if not a crime, to neglect." 

In 1860, she published a volume in verse, in defence of the South, 
entitled " Progression ; or, The South Defended," " which was a most 
remarkable production for a female ; evincing deep research and strong 
analytical and logical reasoning capacities — besides breathing the 
very soul of patriotism and devotion to her native land." 

That she loves her native South with the whole strength of her poetic 
temperament, a short quotation from one of her poems will show : 

" O Fairy-land ! Dream-land ! land of the South, 
What nectar awaits but the kiss of thy mouth — 
Balm-breathing, soul-sweet'ning, as fancy distils 
The perfume thy golden-rimmed chalice that fills ! 



M. SOPHIE HOMES. 115 

There are many that sing of the land of the vine, 

And chant the wild legends of myth-peopled Khine, — 

That catch from the bine waves of Arno a tone, 

Or hymn the low dirges of foam-crested Khone, — 

That join in the ' Marseillaise ' war-cry of France, 

Or blow forth a blast of the days of the lance 

And the tournament — then breathe a tender love-strain 

Of troubadour tinkling his heart's secret pain 

On the answering strings of a well-thrumm'd guitar : 

But grander, yet sweeter and holier far 

Are the cadences floating o'er thee, happy clime ! 

To sound through the far-reaching arches of Time, 

Dear land of the sunbeam, when minstrels shall bring 

Forth the melody slumb'ring upon thy gold string ! 

Oh, waken thee, harpists ! and tell all the worth 

That lies hushed on the sweetly-toned lyre of the South ! " 

Her fugitive poems and sketches, scattered broadcast and with a 
lavish hand, would, if collected, fill several volumes. Some news- 
paper critic, in speaking of her poetry, says : "We might select some 
single lines from many of the fugitive pieces of this sweet singer of 
the South that the painter's pencil could not make more perfect ; and 
others that, in singular beauty of thought, will compare favorably 
with anything found in the language." 

She was — besides writing for many other papers at home and else- 
where — a constant contributor, for over two years, to the Xew Orleans 
" True Delta," whose literary editor,* himself a poet and critic of well- 
known abilities, has pronounced her, " undeniably, the finest female 
lyrist in the Southwest." 

Her poetic talent seems to have been inherited from an elder brother 
of her father's, — Doctor John Shaw, of Annapolis, Md., — whose 
poems and letters of travel were published after his death for the 
benefit of his widow, many of the most interesting reminiscences being 
furnished by his college " chum " and bosom-friend, Francis Scott 
Key, the author of the " Star-spangled Banner." 

But, although descended from one of the oldest families in the land, 
her life has not passed without care, and much time that she would 
like to devote to literary pursuits has to be more practically employed 
in fighting the great battle of life. It is a matter of surprise with 
those who know her, how she ever could have written so much with 
so many other things to engross her ; but, to quote her own words : 

*John W. Overall. 



116 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

" Life without trials / — who would give 

The cares that make him wise, 
To be the useless drone that hives 

No honey as he flies? 
Why, Nature in her mighty book 

This wholesome lesson shows — 
That e'en the thistle's thorny crook 

Can blossom as the rose." 

She was married to Mr. Luther Homes in 1864, and continues to 
reside in New Orleans. In 1870, a volume of her fugitive poems was 
published by J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, entitled "A 
Wreath of Rhymes." 

1S69. 

THE DBE,AM- ANGEL. 

And now the Dream- Angel soared once more over sloping roofs, tall chim- 
neys, spires, domes, and brick-and-mortar cages. Where in the vast city will 
she first bend her glances ? See, through yon partially raised dormer-win- 
dow, the full moonlight streaming, falls on the couch of a slumbering youth. 
It is an humble attic in which he rests ; its walls are bare, its cot meagrely 
furnished ; but that coarse pillow caresses a head where ideality and lofty 
thought have imbedded their priceless jewels on the brow's broad surface. 

Bend lower, spirit; look into that imaginative brain, and deep down into 
that warm glowing heart. No garret's bounds can crib their longings ; no 
raftered roof holds down their high desires and lofty aspirations. 'T is Na- 
ture's child you look upon — and towering mountains, starry heights, singing 
brooklets and flowery dales, are his inheritance. Oh ! guard well the poet's 
dream — let not the stains of earth mar its brightness ! 

Tenderly the Dream- Angel binds o'er his brow a chaplet of the mystic 
witch-hazel, softly singing through its leaves as she does so : 

Breathe here " a spell," mysterious plant — 
Let dreams embody his soul's deep want ! 

The unplastered walls of the little attic crumble down, and he stands on a 
wood-crowned upland, which slopes gently away, terminating in a green val- 
ley and fairy lake. The tinkling bells of browsing cattle, mingling with the 
ripple of laughing brooklets, float through the golden atmosphere, which no 
visible sun illumines, but soft, rosy, and purple clouds, with gilded edges and 
inward glow, like the fire shut up in the opal's heart, wave gentle folds over 
the burnished blue heaven. The air is sleepy with the odorous breath of 
flowers, and golden-winged beetles hum a drowsy drone as they rest on the 
tall silken grasses that wave green banners over the dancing streamlet. A 



M.SOPHIE HOMES. 117 

thick wood, with its interlacing leaves and branches, shuts out this paradise 
from the noisy world, and fairy shapes flit through the green recesses, or dip 
their clustering ringlets in the limpid lake ; while starry eyes peep over the 
rosy hedges, and taper-fingers rain showers of jasmine-buds upon eyelids 
slumbering on the mossy banks, or in the bowers where clematis and sweet- 
brier twine their stars and fragrance. No sounds are heard from out the 
playful host but laughter musical ; they look their love, and speak with 
flowers their pure thoughts. 

And now, a band of dimpling, blushing nymphs have twined a wreath of 
amaranth, and, circling around him in a mazy dance, they place it on his 
brow ; while soft through the hushed air a dreamy cadence floats, and un- 
seen harps and voices blend a witching strain : 

Come ! come ! come ! 
Come to our bowers of light, 

O son of the morning-land ! 
Dreary and dark is the baneful night 

That shrouds the world's cold strand. 
'Tis suspicion, and doubt, and wrong 
. That engender the earthly cloud; 
But come to the bowers where faith is strong, 

And the sorrowing head's ne'er bowed. 
Come ! come ! come I 

Come ! come ! come ! 
Come with a heart of youth — 

Come with an eye of fire, 
Drink of the fount of immortal Truth, 

And quench each gross desire! 
'Tis the glow of generous thought 

That golden lights our sky; 
And love makes our music — melody wrought 

By the spirit's harmony ! 
Come! come! come! 

Come ! come ! come ! 
Here, the words you breathe, 

Here, the thoughts that burn 
Will spring into living flowers, to wreathe 

Thy Hope's now mouldering urn ! 
Lay down thy petty cares ; 

Cast off thy sin's dark yoke ; 
And cool thy brow with ambrosial airs, 

Whose echoes grief never woke ! 
Come ! come ! come ! 



118 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH 

"Where? where?" exclaimed the youth, starting from his pillow with 
kindling eye and flushing cheek ; " oh, where will that glorious dream be 
realized ? " 

" In heaven ! " softly whispered the Dream- Angel, as she floated out on 
the moonbeam. 



ELIZA LOFTON PUGH. 

ELIZA LOFTON" PUGH, nee Phillips, is a native of Louisiana, 
though of French and Irish extraction ; and few, who have any 
acquaintance with her, fail to recognize, both in manner, conversation, 
and appearance, the prominent characteristics of the races from which 
she sprang ; few either, who, recalling her father, fail to remember in 
him the true type of the "Irish gentleman" — a man well and widely 
known throughout the State, generous, brave, and hospitable, endearing 
himself to all ranks by his bonhommie of manner, which, united to his 
talents and energy, made him a successful politician. To fine qualities 
of mind and heart he united the gifts of a ready narrator, and that 
talent, not uncommon to his countrymen, of rendering himself the " life 
of convivial gatherings." To all who knew and loved Colonel Phillips 
this sketch of his daughter among the literati of the South will not 
prove uninteresting. Alas ! that an early death snatched from him 
the gratification of realizing in the woman the fond predictions of the 
early promise of the child. From her infancy she evinced a constitu- 
tion so remarkably fragile, that it caused her devoted mother many an 
hour of sad reflection — particularly sad, as she discovered that as the 
powers of her mind were being rapidly developed, the inspiration of 
the soul seemed wearing away the body. She lived in a world of her 
own creation, surrounded by images of her own fancy. Her conver- 
sation has ever been remarkable for its originality and freshness, which 
has rendered her from childhood interesting to persons of all ages. 

Reared in the almost entire seclusion of home — bereft one by one 
of its inmates and the companionship of those endeared to her not less 
by the closest ties of relationship than a warm and earnest sympathy 
in the passion of her life, — she became prematurely thoughtful as the 
companion of her widowed mother, in the absence and marriage of an 
only sister. At the age of ten she wrote a little story, in which the 
precocity of her inventive genius was apparent. She also evinced 
great talent in the extreme force of her descriptions, the elevation of her 
sentiment, and the poetic beauty of her language. 



ELIZA LOFTON PUGH. 119 

After a careful home education, she completed her course under the 
able direction of Miss Hull, whose seminary at that time had no rival 
in the confidence of the people of the South. Miss Hull, in speaking 
of her, said : 

"She came to me under high encomium from Mrs. M., a friend of mine, 
who said : ' You will find in her an apt pupil, an eager student, a patient, un- 
tiring reader. She possesses talent which will do you much credit.' I next 
day welcomed the pupil thus introduced, into my seminary, and surveyed 
her with interest, but with some disappointment. In the pale, slender, deli- 
cate child, with stooping shoulders, and grave, unattractive face, only enliv- 
ened by a pair of dark, thoughtful eyes, I saw slight indication of the mind, 
which, however, an early examination into her studies satisfied me was of no 
ordinary promise." 

Two years of close application to study, and the advantage of free 
access to the private library of her preceptress, and to which was added 
the privilege of unrestrained communication w T ith the finely cultivated 
mind of her teacher, closed the educational course of Eliza Phillips. 

She returned home to devote herself to her still secret passion for 
her pen. 

Married at the age of seventeen to a son of the Hon. W. TV. Pugh, 
of Louisiana, she passed the first three years of her married life on her 
husband's plantation ; where, in its' unbroken solitude, without the solace 
of her favorite authors, without other companionship than that of her 
family, she first acquainted her friends with her efforts at authorship. 

Blelock & Co. published a novel, entitled "Not a Hero," in 1867, 
which was written by Mrs. Pugh at the beginning of the war, or at 
the time when the war-cloud was gathering in its wrath. Short sketches, 
"literary and political," were published in the "New York World," 
"New Orleans Times," and other journals of less note, under the now, 
deplume of "Arria." 

Improved in health and appearance, she now devotes herself to the 
pursuit which has, from her childhood, taken so strong a hold upon 
her fancy; but to the exclusion of no single duty, either as daughter, 
wife, or mother. 

At the time of the present sketch, Mrs. Pugh is but in the spring 
season of her womanhood, and, we predict, of her authorship. 

The quaint, grave child has developed into the gay, sprightly woman, 
presiding with a graceful hospitality in her unpretending home, endear- 
ing herself to her old friends, and recommending herself to new ac- 
quaintances, by an engaging manner, quickness of repartee, and a di 5 *- 



120 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

play of many of the happiest qualities of heart, which she inherits in 
no slight degree from her father, while in manner, gesture, and appear- 
ance the French extraction unequivocally proclaims itself. Giving 
all her spare moments to her pen, and to a careful supervision of her 
only child, she has not permitted her literary life to cast the shadow 
of an ill-regulated household on those who look to her for their happi- 
ness, or to cloud for an instant the sunshine of home. She has not 
sunk the woman in the author, and has unhesitatingly declared her 
purpose to relinquish the pleasure of her pen should a word of reproach 
from those she loves warn her of such a probability. Yet to all who 
know her, that domestic circle proves that a combination of the prac- 
tical and literary may be gracefully, pleasantly, and harmoniously 
blended. 

Mrs. Pugh has a novel now in the press (1871) of Claxton, Remsen 
& Haffelhnger, Philadelphia. It is entitled " In a Crucible." 

1S68. Margaret C. Piggot. 



ST. PHILIP'S. 



There was no scenery in or around St. Philip's, at least none so called ; no 
mountains, around whose summits the rosy mists of morning might gather ; 
no hills, over whose green slopes the flocks of lazy Southdowns might graze ; 
no jagged cliffs, against which a heavy rolling sea might thunder its eternal 
harmonies ; though miles and miles away the arrowy river flowed with deep- 
ening current into the Mexican Gulf, broadening near its outlet, flattening at 
its edges, and the sedgy margin running out into great stretches of marshy 
ground. Higher up, .in and around St. Philip's, it flowed sluggishly through 
steep banks in the summer-time, swelling angrily with winter floods and 
tides, and rushing hoarsely along, its current broken here and there into 
eddies around a clump of stunted willows bedded in the sand, or sweeping 
out into broad curves, with the sunlight dancing over it, and the comfortable 
country-houses mirrored in its still, glassy surface just at sunset. 

The country was not picturesque, but would have delighted the eye of the 
agriculturist in its rich grain-fields, luxuriant hedges, and well-kept gardens. 
There were wide, open commons, filled with browsing cattle ; fat pasture 
lands, where the sleek, thoroughbred stock of the plantations ranged, chew- 
ing their cuds contentedly under shade-trees under the summer heat, and 
lowing gently as they followed the narrow pathway, cropping as they went 
to the milking-pens — evening shadows gathering the while, and the shrill 
chirp of insects growing clamorous as the sun descended. Yet there was 
beauty in the asDect of the landscape — a beauty to satisfy even a fastidious 



ELIZA ELLIOTT HARPER. 121 

taste. If there were neither hills nor mountains, there were clouds, that, 
evening after evening, piled themselves in fantastic masses against the set- 
ting sun, and whose outlines stood out, bold and clear, against the western 
light. There were gorgeous strips of coloring too — painted skies, with the 
sun sinking down like a huge red ball in the midst : sunsets that equalled 
anything for richness of hue that the human eye ever beheld. There was 
deep, sombre blue in the evening skies that Poussin had striven vainly to 
paint ; and a glint in the golden sunlight pouring over river, wood, and field, 
that Claude could never match ! There was a softness in the air when the 
October mists rolled over the woodlands, and autumn moonlight silvered the 
earth, that even the passionate heart of the poet could not breathe, and that 
hushed the fevered pulse while the planets glowed in the dusky canopy over- 
head. There were stretches of forest, with giant oaks, and whispering pop- 
lars turning their silver-lined leaves to the light, — slender sumach, that 
blushed red under autumn skies, — broad-spreading magnolias, — immortal 
bays, filling the air with their faint, subtile breath, — hawthorns, powdered 
in the spring like crusted snow, and flashing scarlet with the first frost that 
ripened the berries on its stems. Here you sometimes stumbled over sloping 
mounds, where, underneath the shadows of these great Western forests, the 
bones of the red men lie bleaching with the centuries that roll over them — 
dead, indeed, since their rest is undisturbed by the march of civilization, 
whose gigantic proofs stare us in the face in this latter day. The roadside 
grew up thickly with purple heather ; and flaunting lilies of scarlet and yel- 
low, covered flat, marshy plains, while graceful water-lilies hung silent in 
the summer noon, spreading dark-green, glossy leaves over the water, where 
tiny fish swam in and out, and where, through the summer nights, the frogs 
croaked, and ugly, spotted snakes coiled among the reeds. 



ELIZA ELLIOTT HARPER. 

MRS. ELIZA ELLIOTT HARPER, a daughter of Colonel John 
L. Lewis, of Claiborne Parish, La., was born in Jones County, 
Georgia, in September, 1834, and moved to Louisiana with her parents 
in 1846, which State has been her home since. 

Mrs. Harper's life has not been eventful — as she is wont to say, " the 
lines have fallen to her in pleasant places." At an early age, she 
married Dr. James D. Harper, and resides at Minden, Claiborne 
Parish, La. Mrs. Harper's early publications were in the " Louisville 
Journal," over the signature of " Sindera." 
1870. 
16 



122 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



I'LL COME IN BRIGHT DREAMS. 

Yes, I '11 come in bright dreams, love, 

I'll come to thee oft, 
When the light wing of sleep 

On thy bosom lies soft : 
When, wearied with care, love, 

Thon seekest repose, 
And with thoughts of the dear one 

Thy fond bosom glows. 
When the tear-drops of nature 

Beam bright on the flower, 
Reflecting the sky gems, 

I'll come to thy bower. 

Yes, I'll come in bright dreams, love, 

I'll come and we'll stray 
'Mid the beauties of dream-land, 

And 'twill ever be May; 
For the sound of thy voice 

Is the coo of the dove, 
And no gale can be soft 

As thy whispers of love. 
Be thy lips the billows, 

And mine, love, the beach. 
And thus fondly caressing, 

The dream-land we reach. 

Yes, I'll come in bright dreams, love, 

And oh! if it be 
That "life's but a dream," 

I'll dream, love, with thee. 
Yes, dream 'neath the heaven 

Of thy dark, beaming eye, 
Nor e'er from its starlight 

My spirit would fly. 
Then I'll come in life's dream, love, 

And bright will it be ; 
It cannot know sorrow, 

If spent, love, with thee. 



MAKY WALSINGHAM CREAN, 

WELL known to the Southern muses by the simple nom de plume 
of "May Rie," was born in Charleston, S. C, but has been from 
infancy a resident of the Crescent City. Her career as a writer com- 
menced as a school-girl, and opened with a series of lively, dashing, 
and piquant articles, prose and verse, communicated to the " Sunday 
Delta " when under the control of the gifted Joseph Brenan. Much 
interest prevailed for a time over the gay and graceful incognita. 

She continued for several years a frequent contributor to the same 
paper, winning a local popularity seldom attained at the first steps of 
a literary career. 

Late political troubles came, the writers of the " Delta " were scat- 
tered, and " May Rie's " harp remained long silent, or was only 
struck in secret, to sing of sorrow or of patriotic devotion. 

The cloud of national strife swept past. The subject of this sketch, 
like many others, was reduced to a position of need, and again resumed 
her pen, but no longer as a pastime. 

She entered upon her career as a paid writer for the New Orleans 
" Sunday Times," and for two years has been a regular weekly con- 
tributor to its pages, also appearing occasionally in other journals and 
magazines. 

Of mingled English and Irish extraction, Mary Walsingham com- 
bines in her nature the best characteristics of the two nations of 
Albion and Erin, tempered by a high degree of American sentiment. 
In her, a strong though golden chain of solid English sense ever grace- 
fully reins in those coursers of the sun, Irish wit and passion ; and the 
real and ideal, whether they ascend alternately, like the celestial twins, 
or rule together, like Jove and Juno, reign in harmonious duality, each 
retaining its proper limits, and one ever preserving the other from 
deficiency or excess. No collection of her writings has yet been 
made in book-form. 

Miss Crean is writing a novel of "Life in the Old Third." Year? 
ago, the lower and oldest part of the city of New Orleans was called 
the " Third Municipality." It is entirely French — unique and old- 
fashioned both in build and the manners and customs of its inhabitants 
— and furnishes as good a scene and material for romance as any of 
the cities of the Old World. Miss Crean resided in the " Old 
Third" in her childhood, and an original and highly entertaining 

123 



124 LIVING FEMALE WEI TEES OF THE SOUTH. 

book must be her effort. She also has in preparation a volume of 
criticisms of Southern writers. 

1869. 



SANTA CLAUS. 



O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! 

Long years have waned and things have changed 
Since o'er the roof-tree's wintry floss 

With dancing heart my glances ranged, 
And strained to view thy silver wheel, 

Or mark thy chariot 'gainst the sky, 
Or hear thy tiny frosted heel 

With stealthy step go swiftly by, 
Along the roof-tree's fringing floss, 
O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! 

Thou elfin friend, of fame benign, 

And ruddy glow and genial glee! 
What radiant, fairy hopes were mine 

That found their central sun in thee! 
What cavern'd stores of Christmas joys, 

What thrilling mines of wealth unseen, 
Thou darnng dream of girls and boys, 

Went rolling in thy chariot's sheen, 
Along the roof-tree's glittering floss, 
Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! 

How dear the smoke-wreath's misty blue, 

How bright the ruddy kindling hearth ! 
How prized the chimney's magic flue 

Which bore thy cherished form to earth! 
What sleepless hours — what throbbings wild — 

What thrilling hopes around us clung, 
As murmuring breeze, or swallow mild 

Some echo on the midnight flung 
From off the roof-tree's fringing floss, 
O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! 

And hark! I hear the merry horn — 
The merry, clattering, jingling chime 



MARY WALSIXGHAM CEEAN, 125 

That usher'd in the crystal morn, 

The jovial hours of that sweet time ; 
The thrilling bursts of laughter clear — 

The frantic song of joy and mirth — 
The hearty, ringing Christmas cheer 
Around the stockings on the hearth, 
Beneath the roof-tree's waving floss, 
O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! 

I see the forms at rest for years — 

Our starry household -idols then — 
Arise from out the mist of tears, 

To light our mourning hopes again; 
And sever'd hearts, and sunder'd hands, 

And perish'd ties, how sweet of old ! 
And faded hopes, and broken bands, 

Unite from out oblivion cold, 

Beneath the roof-tree's fringing floss, 
O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus I 

But, no ! our dearest hopes and forms 

Are with thy perish'd glories pale, 
Thou sweetest charm of childhood's charms, 

And childhood's brightest fairy-tale! 
They beat no more in music-bars, 

The jocund minstrelsy of earth, 
But softly beam like happy stars 

Above our lonely Christmas hearth, 
Beneath the roof-tree's fringing floss, 
O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! 



BRONZE JOHN AND HIS SAFFEON STEED. 

Came riding forth on a charger bold, 

From the land of the citron-bloom, 
A stalwart knight, with a lance of gold, 

And a dancing yellow plume: 
His shield was of bronze, and his helmet high ; 
Of flame was his breath, and of fire his eye ; 
And swift was the flight of the charger by 

Of this knight with a yellow plume ! 



126 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Away and away, o'er wood and wold — 

O'er city and mountain high ! 
Sharp was the flash of that lance so bold, 

And the glance of that fiery eye ! 
Here was a body, and there was a bier; 
For he fell'd one here, and slew one there : 
"Away to the feast of death elsewhere!" 

Sang the knight as he clattered by. 

Rap, rap, rap ! on the city wall — 

Eap, rap ! and " What ! ho ! indeed ! 
Who is there?" quoth the warden tall. 

"Bronze John and his Saffron Steed." 
Quoth the warden grim, " And who may you be ? 
And come you from the North countrie, 
Or from the pestilent South," quoth he, 

"Bronze John and your Saffron Steed?" 

Eap, rap, rap ! on the city gate, 

And " Open, thou fool, to me ! " 
Quoth the bold Don John, with his lance in wait : 

"I come from the South countrie — 
The challenging knight of the Brazen Shield — 
And I summon this fortress to quickly yield ! " 
"First I'd see thee dead!" quoth the warden chield, 

And grinning, clattered the key. 

Then back drew the knight on his charger bold, 

And lifted his javelin keen ; 
One blow on the, gate with his barb of gold, 

And where was the warder then? 
Here was a body, and there was a bier ; 
The captain was here, and the sentinel there. 
"A king is Bronze John, and his sceptre's his spear," 

Sang the knight as he mounted again. 

And "Hey! for the land of the South," he laughed, 

" The land of the citron-bloom ! 
And the potent knight of the yellow shaft, 

And the floating yellow plume! 
A king is Bronze John — his steed is Death — 
Of fire is his eye, and of flame his breath, 
And his lance is the doom of the foe," he saith, 

" Bronze John and his saffron plume ! " 
Neat Orleans, Sept., 1867. 



MKS, JOSEPHINE E. HOSKINS. 

HOW true is it that true worth and genius are like the violet, hiding 
from public gaze, and only discovered by its perfume, that cannot 
hide itself always! The subject of this article is like a " violet," as modest 
and unassuming as talented, and on that account not well known, for 
true merit goes unrewarded, while glitter mounts high on ParDassus, 
and sits there for a time. 

Mrs. Hoskins is by birth a New-Yorker, but has resided in the 
South for over thirty years, and known and loved "Southland" best of 
all other lands. Her father was a Frenchman, born of Italian parents ; 
he came to the United States just before the war of 1812, entered the 
army, and served with some distinction under General Macomb, and 
after the close of the war was enrolled, by special compliment for ser- 
vices rendered, in the regular army. Her mother was a native of 
Philadelphia. . . . 

Mrs. Hoskins's life has been fraught with many lights and shadows, 
changes and vicissitudes, interspersed with sorrows that fall more fre- 
quently to the few. When in her twenty-sixth year, she was obliged 
to succumb to a disease which she had fought and conquered through 
mere force of will and natural energy ever since her childhood. By 
degrees it reduced her to the position of a cripple, confining her to the 
boundaries of four walls, and giving her a sufficient amount of suffer- 
ing of various kinds to learn to " possess her soul in patience," as she 
expresses it. For over twenty years she has been thus afflicted, and 
during that time she has had trials of a far heavier kind ; and yet the 
true woman remains, kind, gentle, and uncomplaining, pervaded with 
that peace which passeth human understanding. 

Mrs. Hoskins first wrote for publication during the last illness of her 
husband, in 1858 ; but not knowing the pathway that led to print, and 
being too timid to ask the way, having no confidence in her own powers, 
it was not until the publication of the "Southern Monthly," (Mem- 
phis,) in 1860, shortly after making New Orleans her home, that she 
found courage to send her articles to that journal. " Love's Stratagem," 
a novelette, printed in the December number (1861) and succeeding 

127 



128 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

number of that monthly, was far superior to anything of the kind that 
appeared in that magazine. It was not so much the plot as the lan- 
guage, so chaste and beautiful. " Jacqueline," her nom de plume, 
made a reputation with her first contribution, which was increased 
by the publication of an essay on the " Life and Writings of Mrs. 
Jameson," in two articles, which, though it seemed to treat of a 
criticism likely to be understood but by a favored few in a country 
where galleries of art are not, yet it was of the literature that 
creates them. Her timidity caused her to veil her personelle, and who 
Jacqueline was remained a mystery ! The capture of the city of 
New Orleans blockaded her avenue to print, and she remained silent 
and idle during the war, until, shortly after the surrender, John W. 
Overall started a literary journal in the city of New Orleans, called 
" The South," to which she contributed under the nom de plume of 
" Hildegarde," discovering that " Jacqueline " was known to some of 
her friends. That journal was a " publication of a few days " — I verily 
believe, " dying of dulness." 

Writing is very painful as a mechanical effort to her, although, from 
her graceful sentences and fluent style, one would hardly think so. 
She has contributed to the " Catholic World," and other magazines. 
Though going into the " afternoon of life," God has preserved to her 
in a singular manner the heart-elasticity, in many things, of youth. 
She says : 

" My trouble is to realize time, rather than feeling, and to learn how to 
grow old gracefully." 
1869. 



SUSAN BLANCHARD ELDER 

IS the daughter of General Albert G, Blanchard, late of the C. S. A. 
She was born in an extreme Western frontier military post, where 
her father, then a captain in the United States service, was stationed 
to watch the border Indians, and her childhood was passed amid 
scenes and incidents that naturally arise in such a situation. Her 
mother died while she was yet very young, and for many years hers 
was the sad experience of an unloved orphan, for she was soon sepa- 
rated from her father's care. 



SUSAN BLAN CHARD ELDER. 129 

She was educated in the world-noted public schools of the city of 
New Orleans ; cultivation taught her to appreciate art, and her edu- 
cation thoroughly developed a mind of no ordinary capacity. 

While quite young, she became the wife of Charles D. Elder, of 
New Orleans; and when the changed duties from a daughter's secluded 
home to a wife's and mother's cares fell to her lot, she met them firmly, 
and cheerfully fulfilled their requirements. 

Mr. Elder, when New Orleans was captured by the Federals, went 
into the Confederacy with his family, and, like many others, sought 
from place to place a home of safety for his young and helpless family. 
In Selma, Ala., they remained some time — and their house was almost 
a hospital for sick and wounded soldiers at one time. 

Since she was sixteen, she has contributed to the press, at first short 
poems and little pictures of life to different newspapers. "Babies," 
"The First Bide," etc., were full of pathos and beauty, while her 
poems were outpourings of a young, pure heart overflowing with love 
and an admiration of the beautiful. "Hermine," her nom de plume, 
always attracted attention to her articles. Much of her patriotic 
enthusiasm for military distinction must be ascribed to her young days 
at the West, also her love of the wild and stupendous in Nature. 
There is great simplicity in her style, and tenderness of feeling in all 
that she writes. A tinge of melancholy sometimes colors her song ; 
but may not its source be traced to that poetic temperament so touch- 
ingly described by L. E. L., and her early want of a mother's tender- 
ness? 

She wrote only occasionally, until war came upon our land, when 
the first battle-cry seemed to renew all her childhood's memories, and 
her muse poured forth streams of patriotic feeling, appealing to all, 
and inspiring many hearts. 

After the "surrender," she returned to New Orleans, and grace- 
fully conforms to their changed circumstances, devoting much time to 
the education of her children and those increased household cares to 
which our Southern matrons have been called since the war. As a 
woman, she is peculiarly gentle in her manners and refined in her 
tastes : even in conversation her language is well chosen, and her 
words harmonious and elegant. She is still quite youthful. Mrs. 
Elder's most ambitious prose effort is a tale called "Ellen Fitzgerald," 
embodying some of the events in the life of the late lamented Dr. K. 
D. Williams, the Irish patriot and poet, who died at her house in 
17 



130 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Thibodeaux, La., before the war, and full of Southern scenes and feel- 
ings. I am told that it would make a duodecimo volume of over 400 
pages. She published a portion of this tale in the " Morning Star," a 
Catholic weekly, published in the Crescent City. 

1868. A. P. D. 



CLEOPATEA DYING. 

Glorious victim of my magic ! 

Ruined by my potent spell, 
From the world's imperial station 

Have I dragged thee down to Hell! 
Fallen chieftain ! unthroned monarch ! 

Lost through doting love for me! 
Fast, on shades of night eternal, 

Wings my soul its flight to thee! 

Caesar shall not grace his triumph 

With proud Egypt's captive queen ! 
Soothed to sleep by aspic kisses, 

Soon my heart on thine shall lean. 
Soon my life, like lotus-blossoms, 

Swift shall glide on Charon's stream; 
Clasped once more in thy embraces, 

Love shall prove an endless dream. 

Iris ! Charmian ! Bind my tresses ! 

Place the crown above my brow ! 
Touch these hands and take these kisses - 

Antony reproves not now! 
Gods ! my lips breathe poisoned vapors ! 

They have struck my Charmian dead! 
Foolish minion ! durst precede me 

Where my spirit's lord has fled? 

None shall meet his smile before me, 

None within his arms repose; 
Be his heart's impassioned fires 

Quenched upon my bosom's snows ! 
None shall share his burning kisses 

Ere I haste me to his side! 
Octavia's tears may prove her widowed — 

Cleopatra's still his bride! 



SUSAN BLAN CHARD ELDER. 131 

See, my courage claims the title ! 

Closer pressed the aspic fangs — 
Memories of his quickening touches 

Sweeten now these deadly pangs ! 
Honor, manhood, glory's teachings — 

All he bartered for my smile ! 
Twined his heart-strings round my fingers, 

Vibrant to a touch the while; 

Followed fast my silver rudder, 

Fled from Caesar's scornful eye, 
Heeded not his bleeding honor, 

Glad upon my breast to lie ! 
Then I snared him in my meshes, 

Bound him with my wily art, 
From the head of conquering legions 

Snatched him captive to my heart. 

Wild his soul at my caresses ! 

Weak his sword at my command ! 
Eome with fury saw her mightiest 

Bowed beneath a woman's hand! 
Noblest of the noble Eomans ! 

Greatest of the Emperors three ! 
Thou didst fling away a kingdom, 

Egypt gives herself to thee ! 

Sweet as balm; most soft and gentle 

Drains the asp my failing breath ! 
Antony, my lord ! my lover ! 

Stretch thy arms to me in death, 
Guide me through these deepening shadows ! 

Faint my heart, and weak my knee ! 
Glorious victim ! ruined hero ! 

Cleopatra dies for thee ! 



MRS. M. B. HAY. 

RS. HAY, well known throughout the South by her poems and 
prose, which display talent, sometimes lacking in finish and 
study, was born in New York, but her parents removed to Kentucky 
during her infancy, and she was raised in the South. 

She is descended from English and Irish parentage. Her mother's 
father was Scotch, by name of Wilson, and a relative of the celebrated 
" Christopher North." She is related, on her father's side, to General 
Andrew Jackson, to whom she is said to have a strong family and 
personal resemblance. She was married at the age of sixteen to the 
Rev. A. L. Hay, and accompanied her husband, who went as mis- 
sionary to the Indians, among whom she spent eight years. 

Her life has been spent in arduous duties, and writing has been 
only an occasional recreation. She has not had the leisure to devote 
to her pen, to cultivate imagination or indulge in aesthetic taste. She 
has written many articles of practical or local interest, having been 
obliged, by circumstances, to lay aside inclinations and taste, and con- 
sequently has wooed the Muse but occasionally. 

Mrs. Hay has gained considerable reputation as a teacher of mathe- 
matics, and has written an arithmetic, which was highly complimented 
by the professors who examined it. 

Mrs. Hay is at this time a resident of Shreveport, La. 

The following sonnet, which appeared in the first number of the 
" Crescent Monthly," JSTew Orleans, received many merited encomiums. 



ASPASIA. 

Aspasia ! fair Miletian, thou art wreathed 

With all a woman's heart can wish, the dower 
Of classic beauty fair, illumed with power 

Of intellect. From thy red lips are breathed 

Wisdom's deep tones, to woman scarce bequeathed. 
Fame brings thee brilliant wreaths of jewels rare, 
To wind with passion-flowers amid thy hair ; 

With Love's rich wine thy heart's deep thirst relieved. 

Yet lackest thou the gem whose glorious sheen 

Would o'er them all a heaven-born splendor roll — 
132 



GERTRUDE A, CANFIELD. 133 

The gem that from Cleomene's pale brow doth gleam — 

The virgin whiteness of a holy soul. 
Her crown of pure white lilies shall as diamonds beam : 

Upon thy brow shall rest shame's darkest scroll. 
1869. 

GERTRUDE A. CANFIELD. 

MRS. GERTRUDE AUGUSTA CANFIELD is a native of Vicks- 
burg, Miss. She was born in 1836, and on the second marriage 
of her mother, removed with her to the Parish of Rapides, La., where 
she has since resided. In 1859 she married, and her husband, the gal- 
lant Major Canfield, was killed in leading a desperate charge at the 
battle of Mansfield, April 8th, 1864. No man in Rapides was more 
universally liked and respected than Major Canfield, and the tribute 
of honor to his memory was general and spontaneous throughout the 
parish where he had resided and practised his profession — the law. 

Few among our war-stricken people have suffered more deeply than 
Mrs. Canfield. The loss of husband and children, the utter destruc- 
tion of all her property, the necessity of providing for the wants of 
a helpless family, would have utterly overwhelmed a woman of less 
energy than herself. To this last circumstance (the struggle for sup- 
port) is owing, in a great measure, the shortness and infrequency of 
her published writings. The few which have appeared in the " Louisiana 
Democrat" and New Orleans " Crescent" are marked by a sentiment 
and sensibility of a true poetic order. They convey the idea of culture, 
and a fancy which only scatters these slight lyrics from an abundance 
which will yet mature a work of more depth and pretension. 

But it is from Mrs. Canfield's unpublished writings that her friends 
draw the clearest prestige of her future literary success. 

A novel yet in manuscript (the publication having been delayed 
for a time) is marked by a force, a pathos, and a purity which must 
give her a high place among Southern writers. It is a tale which none 
but a woman could have written, from the insight it gives into a 
woman's heart and hidden springs of action ; but it is also filled with 
characters and details masculine in their grasp of thought and treat- 
ment. When " My Cousin Anne " is published, we feel confident 
that the author will receive her reward, in part at least. We add 
purity as the crowning grace, for among the sensational and decollete 
writings of the present day, her mode of creation comes to us as a 
new revelation. 



134 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Mrs. Canfield's lyrics are, many of them, spirited and good. They 
do not appear to be the result of deep thought and careful combina- 
tion, but spontaneous outbursts which seek rhythmical cadences as 
the natural music of the song. What she has done already is nothing 
but an imperfect interpretation of powers, to which we look for more 
sustained effort and fuller work. 

1368. M. B. W. 



IN THE TRENCHES. 



It was on a cold sleety night of March, 1865, that in one room of a large 
tenement-house in Richmond a good fire and bright light were burning — a cir- 
cumstance worthy to be " made a note on," such luxuries as fire and light not 
being by any means common in the beleaguered capital, where wood was scarce 
and dear, coal scarcer and dearer, and money (that would buy anything) 
scarcest and dearest of all. The lights were " tallow dips," it is true, but 
they were tolerably numerous, and judiciously disposed to give as much bril- 
liancy to the scene as possible ; and the red glow of the fire was, on so cold 
and dark a night, a luxury and beauty of the first order. Nor was this all. 
The light shone upon a pretty picture of household comfort, such as no one 
would have expected in a tenement-house in Richmond in 1865 ; that last 
dreadful year of our dreadful struggle, when the exhausted and undermined 
Confederacy tottered to its fall ; when want was rife in palaces, and • gaunt 
famine crouched on fireless hearths where, till then, the cheery blaze and the 
hospitable feast had never lacked. 

The building of which we write had not been originally a tenement-house, 
but the residence of an opulent family whom the chances and changes of 
war had driven from their home, leaving behind them all the comforts and 
luxuries to which they had been accustomed ; so that the room was prettily 
and even elegantly furnished. In the centre of the room was a table, and on 
that table — oh, sight rare and delectable! — was arranged a supper that 
would have rejoiced the soul of an epicure even in long past and almost for- 
gotten " good times." 

White sugar, heaped in snowy profusion, a rare old china bowl, real coffee 
— none of your wretched substitutes of rye, potatoes, corn-meal, etc., but the 
genuine Mocha — shed its grateful aroma through the bright tin spout of the 
coffee-pot on the hearth ; the white china tea-pot flanked it on the other side, 
while at the foot of the table stood a juicy ham ; golden butter occupied the 
centre ; white rolls and biscuits, sweet-cakes and preserves filled up the in- 
tervals, and fragrant honey shed the odor of summer-flowers on the wintry 
air. How on earth, I hear my incredulous readers exclaim, did such a num- 
ber of good things meet together in Richmond, in 1865 ? It happened in 
this wise : The tenement-house was crowded from attic to cellar with refugees 



GEETEUDE A. CANFIELD. 135 

from all parts of the adjacent country, and each one had contributed her quota 
to the feast. One had given the sugar, nearly half the small quantity brought 
from home, and jealously hoarded in case of sickness ; another had spared 
the coffee from a sick husband's hospital stores ; another had sent the juicy 
ham smuggled in from the country by a faithful contraband ; and the pickles, 
preserves, honey, etc., came from similar sources. Kind and generous hearts ! 
Of their little, each had spared a portion to enhance the young wife's inno- 
cent festival. Old Virginia ! immortal Old Virginia ! cypress mingles with 
and overshades her laurels, and her soil sounds hollow with the graves of her 
noblest sons ; but, at least, she has a glorious record to show ; and beside 
the red blazonry of her world- famed battle-fields shines the gentler and more 
tender, yet equally eternal lustre of her heroic women's deeds of love and 
charity. And the little feast, contributed from a dozen generous sources, is 
in honor of one of Virginia's brave defenders — one who had spent all the 
nights of this cold, sleety March in the trenches before Petersburg — who 
slept, if he slept at all last night, on the cold, wet ground ; but who should 
press to-night, please God ! a softer, warmer couch. 

The long-desired, long-solicited furlough is granted at last; and to-night 
the husband rejoins the wife, not seen for six long months. A few brief 
days of happiness they will share, even amidst war's universal desolation — 
forgetting the past, defying the future, they will be happy in the present. 
No wonder the young wife's eyes glisten, and her cheek flushes, and her 
breath comes quick and hurried, as she glances now at the clock, now at the 
table, and anon, with a fonder, more lingering look, at a tiny cradle drawn 
close to the glowing hearth, in which sleeps a chubby boy of four months 
old. Four months old, yet never seen by his father ! Oh, what pure delight 
to show her boy, her first-born, to the author of his being! — to witness the 
father's proud joy! — to share his rapturous caresses! Tears of exquisite 
happiness — "the rapture trembling out of woe" — stole down the young 
wife's cheek as she bent beside her infant's cradle, and breathed her lowly, 
heart-felt " Thank God ! " At that instant her ear caught the distant sound 
of approaching wheels — she knew it was near the hour when the last train 
from Petersburg would be in: doubtless her husband was a passenger in 
that train — doubtless it was his vehicle now drawing near. Yes ; she is 
right — the carriage stops before the house — there is a knock at the street- 
door — it opens, and steps ascend the stairs — nearer — nearer — nearer yet. 

She starts to her feet, and, with neck outstretched, fixed eye, and ear intent, 
she stands like a statue of expectation. But when the step pauses before her 
door, with one bound she is across the room, and, without waiting for a knock, 
throws the door open, prepared to fling her arms around her husband's neck. 
A stranger stands before her — he places a small slip of paper in her hand, 
and turns away. He is a messenger from the telegraph office — it is a tele- 
graphic dispatch. She opens it — what does she read? "Your husband was 
killed in the trenches before Petersburg this afternoon at three o'clock." 



136 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OP THE SOUTH. 

No more — no less ! No more was needed to hurl her from a heaven of 
happiness to a hell of woe — no less could tell the tale! In the trenches ! 
While she prepared to welcome her long-absent with light, and warmth, and 
feasting — with tender est caresses, joyous smiles, and the sweet laughter of 
his unseen child, he lay dead in those cold, dreary trenches ! There slain — 
there buried ! Never after to be seen by her — never again to have his clay- 
cold lips pressed by the frenzied warmth of hers — never to lay a blessing on 
his infant's head ! Dead in the trenches ! While the words of thanksgiving 
yet trembled on her lips, came the sudden tempest, uprooting her every hope 
— the stern, relentless answer of inexorable destiny to her prayer. What 
wonder if, with the wild, piercing shriek of desperate woe that rang through 
every corner of the startled house, there went out from that darkened soul 
all hope, all faith, all religion? Draw the curtain in mercy over such a 
scene ! Into how many desolated homes — could we, Asmodeus-like, have 
looked during those terrible four years — should we have beheld the same 
fatal message carry horror and despair -to millions of anguished hearts? And 
can these things ever be forgotten or forgiven? "Vengeance is mine," saith 
the Lord ; " I will repay it." " How long, Lord, how long / " 

ELLEN A. MORIAKTY. 

WE believe, firmly, that there is much in a name, and are as often 
attracted by the name of a writer as the title of the article. The 
name of " Moriarty " is attractive and inviting. 

Miss Moriarty came to America when very young ; was educated in 
the North, and, on leaving school, came to the South, and has resided 
here for nine years, no inconsiderable portion of her life. 

Miss Eliza Moriarty, well known in the North as a poet of much 
promise, is a sister to the subject of this article. 

Miss Ellen Moriarty writes cleverly. Her poems are generally 
" hasty," but, with some corrections, do very well, and now and then 
she is brilliant. Her stories are excellent. We think that she is a 
better prose-writer than a poet ; but as a poet, far above mediocrity. 
We look forward to seeing Miss Ellen ranking very high among the 
writers of the country ; and with close application and study, it will 
not be a great while before her name will be lauded as a " rising star " 
in the horizon of literature. Her modesty and quiet dignity has kept 
her from being paraded conspicuously before the world ; but we still 
hope and expect that good time to come when true merit will not go 
unrewarded, and "glitter" be given its true place. 



ELLEN A. MOKIARTY. 137 

Miss Ellen Moriarty has contributed to various periodicals, North 
and South ; recently to Miles O'Reilly's " Citizen," under her own 
name and various noms deplume — "Evangeline" and "LucyEllice" 
among others. 

She is now living near Baton Rouge, La. 

1868. 



AX OLD STORY. 



Ah! my love, how many a day 

I have gone down to the ocean-side, 
And lingered there, till in twilight gray 

The sunshine sank in the darkening tide. 
And I'd watch the white sails come and go, 

And hear from afar the mariner's song; 
And I'd weep, I'd weep, for I loved you so, 

My heart was sad, and the days were long. 

Ah! my love, when the proud ship bore 

Your true love from the land away; 
You did not dream, ere the year was o'er, 

The one you loved would that love betray. 
But a mother's sighs, and a sire's command, 

And the yellow gold in the balance hung, 
And a faithless heart and a faithless hand 

Were bartered away by a faithless tongue. 

My love ! my love ! and we met once more 

'Mid the light and song and the merry dance; 
But the hope and the joy of the past were o'er, 

And I shrank from the gleam of your scornful glance. 
How I loathed the diamonds that decked my brow, 

How my soul turned sick in the pomp and glare ; 
I had won them all with a broken vow — 

Won them! — to purchase a life's despair! 



18 



MRS. E. M. KEPLINGER. 

(" Queen of Hearts.") 

MRS. E. M. KEPLINGER, whose maiden name was Patterson, is 
a native of Baltimore, Mel., of German descent by the paternal 
line. Her parents died when she was so young, she has no recollection 
of them, and amid the miseries of orphanage she began the life which 
seems to have ever been shaded by sorrow. Gentle, yielding, and sen- 
sitive in her nature, she has felt more keenly the harshness of fate ; 
and there is a sadness in her face which plainly shows she has suffered. 

At an early age she was married in Mobile to Samuel Keplinger, 
of Baltimore. 

Amid all the chilling realities of life, Mrs. Keplinger seems to have 
lived in the ideal, and through all her sad years she has been wedded 
to the beautiful in art and literature. Her mind, naturally brilliant, 
has been well stored with the gems of learning, and the productions 
of her pen have acquired for her a desirable position among the 
" writers of the Crescent City." 

Her first poem, "The Brigand's Bride," written in the eighteenth 
year of her age, and published some time after in the "Southern Ladies' 
Book," attracted notice ; and from the time of its publication her 
effusions have been welcomed for the beauty, feeling, and grace they 
embody. 

For many years Mrs. Keplinger has been a teacher in the public 
schools of New Orleans. Her amiability and warm heart have won 
for her a large circle of admiring friends, and as she possesses a char- 
acter noted for firmness, she has the rare ability to retain old friends 
under all vicissitudes of fortune, while her worth and intelligence are 
constantly enlarging friendship's shining band. 

A true Southern woman, during the "reign of Butler "in New- 
Orleans she resigned her position as teacher, her only means of sup- 
port, and went to the uncertainty and privations of a life in the Con- 
federacy. Like an angel of mercy, she labored faithfully in the hos- 
pitals, and many a dying prayer breathed her name, and many a liv- 
138 



E. M. KEPLINGER. 139 

ing soldier has cause to bless the tenderness of heart that bade her 
willing feet into those wards of disease and death. 

After the surrender of the Confederate troops she returned to New 
Orleans, poor, broken in spirits by the defeat of her hopes, and more 
saddened with the terrible scenes she had witnessed. Her talents pro- 
cured her a friend and a patron in the lamented W. H. C. King, who 
paid her liberally for contributions to his paper, the "Sunday Times." 
A critic, in noticing her contributions, speaks of " Queen of Hearts " as 
the "genial, touching, and sweetly natural." Yet "Queen of Hearts" 
has not written for fame; but for "lucre." Her contributions to the 
"Sunday Times" were written under many disadvantages, most of 
them when her energies were exhausted, her brain weary with a day 
of care in the school-room. Writing for pleasure and writing from 
necessity are very different ; and Mrs. Keplinger's efforts need polish- 
ing and pruning. 

1869. 



OVER THE RIVER. 

'Twas a beautiful land! It arose in my dream, 
Verdant, and varied, and flashing in light; 

Choral with songs of many a stream, 
That sung itself on to the ocean of night. 

Ferryman, ferryman, row me across 
To that beauteous land on the other side : 

This river ! — it runs like a wave of floss 
Through the beauteous land mine eye hath descried. 

O'er the calm waters gliding away, 

Lightly the rower sways to the oar; 
Ha! my warm cheek is moist with the spray: 

Nearer we draw to the beautiful shore ! 

The glorious land which appeared to my view — 

Its zephyry clouds like mountains below, 
Floating far down the ether of blue, 

Golden, and crimson, and azure, and snow. 

And the river's still singing e'ermore to the sea, 

Or sleeping in shade while the bright stars look down, 

Hushed by the sound of their own melody, 

Giving back to the night-queen her silvery crown. 



140 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

What is this change that comes over my sight? 

Where are the fields and the forests of pride? 
Where are the valleys all glowing in light? 

The beauteous land which mine eye hath descried. 

Ah, these are pure waters ! No more shall I thirst ! 

The cooling wavelet, it meeteth my hand; 
Out from the hill-side the clear drops burst; 

I stoop ! but it fades in the bedded sand. 

I must tarry awhile ! We will moor the bark here — 

Crossing the river at eventide; 
Far distant those beautiful shores appear, 

Which seemed but to border the river's side. 

Well ! I must on. 'T is a desolate way ; 

Night cometh, too ! Ah I where is the land ? 
How distant ! how dim ! how it fadeth away ! 

It seemed by this winding river spanned. 

Chill comes the north wind ; I falter ! No light ! 

Still wander I on. No gleaming of day ; 
The beautiful land fades afar from my sight; 

Surely those mists must have led me astray ! 

" Ah ! there 's a river far darker than this — 
Shrink not ! Its waves bear thee out to the shore 

Of the beautiful land — to thy vision of bliss ; 
They who have crossed it return nevermore. 

" Shudder not, traveller ! No ill doth betide 
Thy bark on the shores of that perilous sea; 

High rolls the wave, but sure is the guide 

Who waits on the banks of that river for thee." 

Back o'er the waters my vision flits by! 

False were the meteors that led me astray ; 
My beautiful land, with its bright gilded sky, 

I sought it all over life's desolate way. 



MKS. LOUISE CLACK. 

THE subject of this sketch, Mrs. Louise Clack, #f New Orleans, is 
a Northerner by birth ; but having been from her infancy associated 
with the South by the ties of interest and relationship, she was, in 
feeling, a Southerner, even before her marriage, at a very early age, 
with Mr. Clack, of Norfolk, Va., made her in heart and soul indissolubly 
united to our country and our people. Since her marriage, her con- 
stant residence at the South, her love for its people, and her devotion to 
and sufferings for its cause, have made her, to all intents and purposes, 
a Southerner, and fully entitled to a place among Southern writers. 

Up to the commencement of the war, the current of her life glided 
on as smooth and smiling as a summer sea. The wife of a prosperous 
lawyer in New Orleans, her time was passed in the pursuit of innocent 
pleasures, in dispensing elegant hospitalities among her numerous 
friends, and in the delightful cares of wifehood and maternity. It is 
well said that " the happiest nations have no history ; " and if this be 
true of nations, it is certainly no less true of individuals. 

When " halcyon broods over the face of the deep ; " when not a 
storm disturbs the deep serenity of the soul ; when not a cloud so large 
as a man's hand glooms on the horizon of the future — what then can 
the historian or the biographer find to say ? But when calamity comes ; 
when danger threatens ; when the " times that try men's souls " are 
upon us, and we see the spirit of a "weak woman" arise in the ma- 
jesty of its strength to confront disaster and battle single-handed with 
adverse fortune, what nobler theme could poet or historian desire ? 
Such is an epitome of the life we would portray ; a life, alas ! too like 
in its leading features to the lives of thousands more of our unfortu- 
nate countrywomen during and since the late terrible struggle. When 
Beauregard's call for aid rang trumpet-like through the length and 
breadth of our land, Col. Clack raised and equipped a battalion of 
volunteers, and hastened to join our hard-beset army at Corinth. 
From that time the subject of our sketch endured what many another 
anguished heart was at the same time suffering. To know that the 
one cherished idol of her soul was severed from her side, exposed daily, 
hourly, to desperate danger ; never to know what moment might bring 

141 



142 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

the tidings of his death ; to lie down at night with the unspoken but 
heartfelt prayer that morning might not bring the dreaded tale ; to 
rise at morning from dreams haunted by visions of battle and slaugh- 
ter — with the awful thought that night might close over her a widowed 
mother, and alas ! after hoping, fearing, dreading, praying for three 
long years, at last came the fatal blow which, as no fears could hasten, 
so no hopes, no prayers could avert. 

Col. Clack fell at the battle of Mansfield, in the desperate charge made 
by Minton's brigade on the enemy's batteries, when many a hero's soul 
passed from the bloody field to the arms of attending seraphs. When 
the sad news reached his widow, she was a refugee from New Orleans. 
To the pangs of her awful bereavement were added those of exile. It 
was while in this desolate and forlorn condition that her first literary 
work was produced. Until now, beyond an ardent love for, and a keen 
appreciation of the beauties of literature, she had no claim to the title 
of " literary ; " but now an intense longing for " something apart from 
the sphere of her sorrow" — something that should lift her out of, 
wrench her away from the ever-present, torturing subject of her re- 
grets, together with pecuniary necessity, induced her to prepare a 
volume for the press. " Our Refugee Household " was the result — a 
book which unites, in a charming manner, the sad experiences of the 
writer with the loveliest creations of fiction and fancy. It is a string 
of pearls strung on a golden thread. The varied characters and chang- 
ing fortunes of the little " Refugee Household ; " the heart-breaking 
trials and imminent perils to which they were exposed, form a ground- 
work of intense interest, upon which the lively fancy of the writer has 
erected a superstructure of fairy-like beauty and elegance. In addi- 
tion to her first work, Mrs. Clack has also published a Christmas story- 
book for children, which bears the title of " General Lee and Santa 
Claus" — a tiny volume, which unites in its limited space sound pa- 
triotic feeling with the frolic fancies so dear to little folks. And she 
has, we believe, now in press a much more elaborate work than either 
of the above ; one which we hope will place her fame on an enduring 
pedestal for the admiration of posterity. 

November 5th, 1870, (since the above notice was written,) Mrs. Clack 
was married to Mr. M. Richardson, of New Orleans. 

With this brief sketch, we present to our readers the following 
specimen of her poetical powers, which will, of itself, speak sufficiently 
in their praise, without the addition of a word from us. 



LOUISE CLACK. 143 

THE GRANDMOTHER'S FADED FLOWER. 

" Oh, grandmother dear, a masquerade ball ! 

A ball, I do declare I 
I'll robe myself rich in costume of old, 

In a train, and powdered hair." 

And a beautiful girl of sixteen years 

Knelt by her grandmother's chest; 
While that stately dame, in a high-backed chair, 

Smiled at each timely jest. 

Brocades, and silks, and satins antique 

Were strewn in confusion rare 
Round the fair young girl, while diamond and pearl 

She wound in her bright brown hair. 

"What's this? what's this?" she jestingly cried, 

Holding high a faded flower; 
" Why treasure it here, my grandmother dear, 

With relics of bridal dower ? " 

"My child, it is dearer far to me 

Than silk, or satin, or pearl ; 
For it 'minds me well of vanished hours, 

Of hours when I was a girl. 

" Ay, well I remember the day, ' lang syne,' 

When my first love, last love — gone — 
Came to my side with this then fresh flower ; 

'Twas a beautiful spring-like morn, 

"But he's gone before — yes, many a year! 

Hush, Flo ! the pearls are thine ; 
I '11 meet him yet in perennial spring : 

Don't crush the flower — it's mine." 

And the fair girl gazed in mute surprise 

At the tear and flushing cheek ; 
Kissed the tear away, then her thoughts stray 

To the ball of the coming week. 



The ball is o'er — a pure white bud 

Flo folds to her throbbing breast; 
She has learned the power of the faded flower 

She found in her grand-dame's chest. 
1869. G. A. C 



MRS. MARY ASHLY TOWNSEND. 

THE genius, gracefulness, and spirit which characterized certain 
contributions published in the " New Orleans Delta," over the 
nom de plume of " Xariffa," sixteen or seventeen years ago, when that 
journal was conducted by Judge Alexander Walker, excited much in- 
terest and curiosity at the time in literary circles, as to the identity of 
the no less modest than gifted writer. 

An eager inquiry at last discovered that "Xariffa " was a young lady 
just passing the threshold of womanhood ; and that though connected 
by ties of kindred with many of the oldest and best families in Louis- 
iana, and thoroughly imbued with the taste, sentiments, and ideas of 
Southern society, she was by birth and education a Northerner. A 
native of New York, Mrs. Townsend was of the ancient and honor- 
able stock of the Van Wickles, of New Jersey, and the Van Voorhises, 
of Duchess County, New York. Her mother, the daughter of Judge 
J. C. Van Wickle, of Spotswood, New Jersey, is a lady of fine mind 
herself, and distinguished for her elegance of manner and generous 
hospitality. She is still living at Lyons, New York, the birthplace of 
" Xariffa." In the very bloom of her literary fame and promise, Miss 
Van Voorhis formed a matrimonial alliance with Mr. Gideon Town- 
send, an energetic and intelligent gentleman, who, though of an active 
and business character and much absorbed in the struggles of commer- 
cial life, always manifested a warm sympathy with and high apprecia- 
tion of the literary tastes and pursuits of his talented wife. 

The happy and congenial couple now live in New Orleans, sur- 
rounded by a most interesting family, including a bright little daugh- 
ter, who is already an authoress at the age of thirteen* and gives pro- 
mise of unusual brilliancy and vigor of intellect. Since her first ap- 
pearance in the " Delta," Mrs. Townsend, or rather " Xariffa," as she 
prefers to be known in her literary relations, has been a regular con- 
tributor to many of the leading journals and magazines of the day, 
and a successful essayist in some of our ablest Reviews. In the 
" Delta," the " Crossbone Papers," which were widely copied and com- 
mended ; " Quillotypes," a series of short essays, which were attributed, 

* " Under the Stones," by Cora Townsend. Published in New York, 1867. 
144 



MARY ASHLY TOWNSEND. 145 

on account of their vigor and power, to the pen of one of the opposite 
sex, excited special attention and admiration. " My Penny Dip," a 
humorous tale or sketch, was published throughout the country and 
ascribed to various authors, and, returning at last to New Orleans, re- 
appeared in the " True Delta " as " My Penny Dip, by Henry Rip," 
a fit name for so bold an appropriator of the product of another's 
genius. 

In 1859, Derby & Jackson, New York, published " The Brother 

Clerks, a Tale of New Orleans, by ," which was Mrs. Townsend's 

first book. It was moderately successful. 

In 1870, J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, published " Xariffa's 
Poems " — a collection of one hundred poems. The volume is tenderly 
inscribed "To my Mother." It was favorably reviewed by many 
pleased critics. One writer, comparing " Creed " with the poet lau- 
reate's " Maud," states : 

" Mrs. Townsend is by no means passionless ; but her passion is not ob- 
trusive, and, therefore, it never offends the most fastidious taste. She has, 
what is better and higher than passion — what is a well-spring of truer 
poetry — an infinite fountain of purely human tenderness and sympathy. 
She has, too, that divine melancholy ) that sweet suggestive sadness, which 
Poe declares to be the soul of poetry. As to style, she especially excels in 
richness and variety of coloring." 

" Xariffa's " poems, while they are emotional, never degenerate into 
mere sentimentality. In the volume we have that tenderness, grace, 
and sweetness, the soft, clear, sunny charm, and the inborn and in- 
woven harmony, which are latent to the poetic constitution of Mary 
Ashly Townsend. 

We cannot, however, in the narrow compass of this sketch, enume- 
rate the many productions of Mrs. Townsend's pen. Besides prose 
sketches, she ranks high as a poetess. Her poems evince originality, 
imagination, taste, and power of harmonious versification. Some 
specimens of these, which accompany this sketch, will give an idea of 
her poetic gifts and powers. We confess, however, to a preference for 
her prose writings. In pleasant sketches of character and scenery, in 
quiet humor and gentle satire, her smooth, even style and euphonious 
yet vigorous sentences never fail to enlist interest, to hold the atten- 
tion of the reader, and to leave a most agreeable impression of the 
sound sense and pure heart of the accomplished writer. It is much 
to be regretted that family cares and duties should deprive the public, 
19 



146 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

and especially her immediate circle of friends and admirers, of the 
more frequent enjoyment which her pleasant contributions to our peri- 
odical literature must always afford to those who can appreciate and 
admire genius, wit, high mental and moral culture, and good taste, so 
happily blended with all the social and domestic virtues, as they are 
in the subject of this sketch. 
1870. 



EBB AND FLOW. 



i. 

The morn is on the march — her banner flies 
In blue and golden glory o'er the skies; 
The songs of wakening birds are on the breeze / 
The stir of fragrant zephyrs in the trees; 
Waves leap full-freighted to the sunny shore, 
Their scrolls of snow and azure written o'er 
With hope, and joy, and youth, and pleasures new, 
While surges fast the sands with jewels strew — 
The tide is in. 

II. 

The stars shine down upon a lonely shore; 
The crested billows sparkle there no more; 
Poor bits of wreck and tangled sea-weed lie 
With empty shells beneath the silent sky. 
Along the shore are perished friendships spread, 
In Hope's exhausted arms lies Pleasure dead; 
A life lies stranded on the wreck-strewn beach, 
The ebbing waves beyond its feeble reach — 
The tide is out. 



CEEED. 

i. 

I believe, if I should die, 

And you should kiss my eyelids when I lie 

Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains, 
The folded orbs would open at thy breath, 
And from its exile in the Isles of Death 

Life would come gladly back along my veins. 



MARY ASHLY TOWNSEND. 147 

II. 
I believe, if I were dead, 
And you upon my lifeless heart should tread, 

Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be, 
It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch 
Of him it ever loved in life so much, 

And throb again warm, tender, true to thee. 

in. 

I believe, if on my grave, 

Hidden in woody deeps or by the wave, 

Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret, 
From every salty seed of your dear grief 
Some fair, sweet blossom would leap into leaf 

To prove death could not make my love forget. 

IV. 

I believe, if I should fade 

Into those mystic realms where light is made, 

And you should long once more my face to see, 
I would come forth upon the hills of night, 
And gather stars like fagots, till thy sight, 

Led by their beacon blaze, fell full on me ! 

v. 

I believe my faith in thee, 

Strong as my life, so nobly placed to be, 

I would as soon expect to see the sun 
Fall like a dead king from his height sublime, 
His glory stricken from the throne of Time, 

As thee unworth the worship thou hast won. 

VI. 

I believe who has not loved 

Hath half the treasure of his life unproved; 

Like one who, with the grape within his grasp, 
Drops it, with all its crimson juice unpressed, 
And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed, 

Out from his careless and unheeding clasp. 



148 LIVING FEMALE WRITE ES OF THE SOUTH. 

Vil. 
I believe love, pure and true, 
Is to the soul a sweet, immortal dew 

That gems life's petals in its hours of dusk : 
The waiting angels see and recognize 
The rich Crown-Jewel, Love, of Paradise, 

When life falls from us like a withered husk. 

MRS. FLORENCE J. WILLAKD 

IS the authoress of a novel published in London in 1862, and in 1869 
republished with the imprint of A. Eyrich, New Orleans — entitled 
"The Heroism of the Confederacy ; or, Truth and Justice," by Miss Flor- 
ence J. O'Connor, which was the maiden name of Mrs. Willard. 

She is a native of Louisiana, and, before the war, contributed to the 
« Mirror," a paper edited by Mr. Mark F. Bigney, now editor of the 
"New Orleans Times." She has contributed lengthy poems to the 
New Orleans " Sunday Times," signed with her initials, (" F. J. W.") 
In 1869, she published a volume of poems in Canada. She was in 
Paris during the late siege. 

A Northern paper thus reviews " her" novel: 

" The picture she draws of Louisiana society before the war is gorgeous in 
the extreme. All day long ' in halls of polished marble, with beautifully 
carved doors, which an inhabitant of the Orient might envy,' women robed 
in point-lace and diamonds, and more beautiful than an angel's dream, and 
men of a distingue-ness altogether beyond words, discuss, in language which 
the benighted Northern mind finds it difficult to comprehend, politics, love, 
and war, the excellence of slavery, the crimes and insolence and treachery 
of the black-hearted Yankee, the long-suffering patience and magnanimity 
of the down-trodden South. Around them, respectfully admiring and drink- 
ing deep draughts of political wisdom from their sparkling converse, stand 
eager representatives of the titled aristocracy of Europe, glad to be recog- 
nized as their social peers — among whom a real French count and an un- 
doubted English earl are conspicuous by their flashing coronets and their 
chivalric disregard of grammar. In deference to these distinguished — we 
beg Miss O'Connor's pardon, distingue — foreigners, much of the conversation 
is conducted in French of singular impurity and incorrectness ; in fact, it 
appears to be of that variety known in New Orleans as bumboat French — 
whereupon the Gallic nobleman shows he can be as resplendently ungram- 
matical in his own sweet tongue as in the ruder speech of perfidious Albion. 



FLORENCE J. WILLAED. 149 

No one talks for less than half an hour at a time, and it seems to be a point of 
honor with each to use only the longest words ; and the only pauses in the elo- 
quent strife are when the doors of the salle a manger (there were no dining- 
rooms in that favored land) were thrown open, disclosing ' banquets that the 
most fastidious disciple of Epicurus,' etc. etc. So ' the hours rolled on in 
revelry' until the war-cloud bursts : the tocsin peals, and so does the Southern 
hero. The brilliant pageant vanishes, and in its stead we have the hideous 
apparition of the beast Butler and the monster Farragut." 

In conclusion, as a sample of Mrs. Willard's verse, we offer the fol- 
lowing lines on " Rip Van Winkle," written after seeing Mr. McKee 
Rankin perform that part : 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



More, alas ! than Rip Van Winkle 

Waken from a sleep of woe, 
To find all they loved and cherish' d 

Have forgot them long ago. 
Not alone in Sleepy Hollow 

Is this painful scene or change; 
But o'er all the earth are Derricks — 

Gertrudes live where women reign. 

II. 

Oh! how often has one harsh word 

Rent asunder human tie, 
And sent forth a lonely outcast 

'Neath the bitter blast to die. 
Rip Van Winkle is but type of 

Those who wake from feeling's sleep, 
Finding all is disappointment 

Where'er death or change doth creep. 

Ill, 



Twenty years ! this surely long is ; 

I would give my best friends ten : 
Were I not forgotten wholly, 

They were not the sons of men. 



150 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

All have slept who wake to sorrow; 

Aching limbs and frosty head 
Come not with Time's icy imprint 

But when true affection's dead. 

IV. 
Poor Rip found his musket rusty: 

It fell from his weak grasp down ; 
But he found e'en hearts decaying 

When he reach'd his native town; 
And he found the snows of winter 

Had not only strew'd his head, 
But the graves of the departed, 

Sleeping with the silent dead. 

Y. 
Happy they, who, like Van Winkle, 

Find true hearts with them, and pass 
In a foaming cup forgiving, 

Holding to their lips the glass. 
Though in age and tatter' d garments 

He quaff'd on unto the end, 
Hoping "friends live well and prosper," 

The cup, until the last, his friend. 
December, 1870. 



JEANNETTE R. HADERMANN. 

FORGIVEN AT LAST," a novel, (Philadelphia, 1870,) the first 
book of Miss Jeannette R. Hadermann, who resides near Lake St. 
Joseph, Tensas Parish, La. This novel was a " first book," and, it has 
been stated, was partly autobiographical. It was received with some 
favor, sufficiently so to invite another effort. Miss Hadermann's con- 
tributions to the New Orleans " Sunday Times," under the pseudonym 
of " Ann Atom," are excellent and well-written sketches. 

Miss Hadermann was born in New Jersey, the younger daughter of 
an Episcopal clergyman, who removed to Natchez, Miss., while the 
subject of this notice was a child, where he was for some time a pro- 
fessor in Jefferson College. 

February, 1871. 



CATHARINE F. WINDLE. 

MRS. CATHARINE FORRESTER WINDLE is the daughter 
of the Rev. William Ashmead, deceased. At the time of his 
death, Rev. Mr. Ashmead was pastor of the Second Presbyterian 
Church of Charleston, S. C, and was eminent as a pulpit orator and 
litterateur. The reputation and characteristics of this distinguished 
clergyman are perpetuated in a biographical sketch in Dr. Sprague's 
" American Pulpit," as well as by a memorial tablet in the church 
alluded to. The elaborate inscription of the latter is from the pen of 
the lamented Hugh S. Legare, of South Carolina. A duplicate of this 
tablet is erected in the First Presbyterian Church of Lancaster, Penn- 
sylvania, over which congregation Mr. Ashmead at one time presided, 
and which last-named State was the birthplace of his daughter Catha- 
rine. Mrs. Ashmead, who was a daughter of Dr. Alexander Forrester, 
of Wilmington, Delaware, was noted for her literary tastes and talents. 
The natural heritage, therefore, of the subject of this notice was a 
fondness for letters. At an early age, Miss C. F. Ashmead commenced 
her literary publicity at the North, where she was educated, as a con- 
tributor to " Graham's " and " Sartain's " magazines, then highly pop- 
ular serials of light literature. Subsequently, she published a volume 
of poems. 

In February, 1849, she married Mr. George W. Windle, of Wil- 
mington, Delaware, and they immediately afterward became residents 
of New Orleans. From this time until 1861, Mrs. Windle wrote at 
intervals for the " Delta" and " True Delta." 

Mr. George W. Windle was a brother of Miss Mary J. Windle 
favorably known years ago as an author, but who for fifteen years has 
been a hopeless invalid, residing in Washington, D. C. 

The experiences of the war (during which four years she aided the 
cause of the South to the extent of her power), which added to her greater 
maturity of years and character, seem latterly to have deeply impressed 
Mrs. Windle with the earnestness of life. The serious religious and 
social problems of the marvellous age in which we live have attracted 
her interest, and, in such measure as circumstances have permitted, 
have instigated of late her efforts both of the pen and otherwise. In 
1865, she gave a public lecture in New York and elsewhere, to advance 

151 



152 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH, 

a new and peculiar theory, "that woman is deputed by Nature to ac- 
complish the perfection of the human race." 

Mrs. Windle is a disciple of Victor Cousin and JoufTroy in phi- 
losophy, and a student of the writings of Herbert Spencer, Matthew 
Arnold, Professor Huxley, and Emerson. 

Mr. Windle died in Shreveport, La., April, 1870. Since her hus- 
band's death she has resided in New Orleans. 

The following is a specimen of her earlier poetical compositions : 

WHY DO I LOVE HIM ? 

" Why do I love him ? " Search the unfathomed well 
To find the sources whence its waters swell; 
Explore the mines, whose richest veins untold 
Give the first promise of their hidden gold ; 
Or seek in ocean for its parent stem 
Whereon once grew the polished coral gem. 

"Why do I love him?" Ask the evening star 

To waft its story from the realms afar; 

Or bid the flower that decorates the earth 

Kelate the wondrous history of its birth ; 

Or call departed spirits to return, 

And bear the tale of their untrodden bourne. 

"Why do I love him?" Let a mother tell 
Wherefore it is she loves her child so well; 
Let awful Deity assign a cause 
For loving man, a recreant to His laws ; 
But vainly ask not woman to impart 
The mystic secret of her plighted heart. 



NOVELS AND NOVELISTS. 



. . . The person of real culture beholds in fiction the highest of all arts — 
that through which not only human character and life may be justly repre- 
sented, as these have thus far in the progress of the race exhibited themselves 
in their various phases, but also as the fitting mirror of that sublime philos- 
ophy which underlies the incidental experience of all the individuals and 



CATHAKINE F. WINDLE. 153 

generations of mankind — linking them as well together in one common 
brotherhood, as uniting them by the ties of vivid relationship to the stupen- 
dous universe of Infinite wisdom. In proportion to true mental (or shall I 
rather say moral ?) advancement, fictitious narrative affords enjoyment solely 
as it is created in accordance or otherwise with this, its lofty delegation. Its 
chief capacity of giving pleasure to the highest order of taste consists in its 
presenting those tenderer and diviner touches of nature by which the whole 
world is made kin ; nay, by which the whole system of worlds are conjoined 
with our humanity, ennobling and elevating it from the connection with a 
scheme of such magnitude and evident completeness. 

Of such novels we have had but few. Previously to this day of unique de- 
velopment in which we live, they have never hitherto been produced, nor 
could they earlier have met with any appreciative readers. They are the 
growth of a new era of scientific discovery, of religious thought and conviction, 
and of prophetic promise for mankind. Even now, portions of them — those, 
perhaps, which constitute in reality their exquisite merit — are overlooked, 
or sometimes even condemned by persons whose insight has not reached to 
their grand moral plane : readers not yet permeated with the new spiritual 
influence of an exalted humanitarianism, of which the suggestion in such 
fictions appears to them an absurdity, or a heresy, as the case may be, and 
not, as it truly is, the certain presage of the prevalence ultimately of a divine 
magnetism of general philanthropy and of reverence of our kind — the 
destined forces to regenerate our national globe. The novelist himself has 
undergone the " new birth " who has been able to insert such touches in his 
pages. And something of the same renovation must have been experienced 
by his reader before his productions can be properly appreciated. The free- 
masonry of his labor has its spiritual password, requiring initiation. The 
subtle depths in the human essence which he hath explored, and the sound- 
ings whereof he hath wrought in verisimilitude in his creations, only the 
responsive mind recognizes as faithful copies of latent gems existing in the 
invaluable mine of our common humanity, that shall one day come to light 
universally in the race, to glorify and exalt its future generations, and verify 
its relationship with Deity. 

Of the many fictions of Dickens, that which is incomparably his greatest 
production is held in proper estimation by but few. The author himself, 
however, I believe, would have claimed the " Tale of Two Cities " as his 
masterpiece, for he must have had a consciousness of its grandeur while 
writing it, and felt that he was employing his art under an unusual inspira- 
tion. But among the countless admirers of his novels, how small a number 
are there who would name this work, if called upon to designate their favorite 
in the long catalogue of his novels ! And yet, while neither in force nor in 
vigor, as a whole, has he written anything at all equal to it, the conception 
of Sidney Carton's self-sacrifice to the guillotine in order to save his successful 
rival, is the sublimest suggestion in the entire range of fiction. ... It stands 
20 



154 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

alone among the creations of the novelist, both for the most exquisite pathos 
worthily (instead of mawkishly) applied, and for the full exhibition of the 
sublime, as pertaining to our humanity. It indeed deserves the appellation 
of a new evangel. 



MRS. A. M. C. MASSENA. 

MRS. MASSENA has published one book, entitled " Marie's Mis- 
take," Boston, 1869. This work is presumed to be partly auto- 
biographical. 

Mrs. Massena's pseudonym is " Creole," and she has written con- 
siderable for various papers, and edited a paper in the interior of 
Louisiana. With her, "writing" is a profession, and she has vim and 
energy to succeed. 

She was born in New Orleans, July 4th, 1845, and made her debut 
as a writer in 1864. 

She resides in the parish of Plaquemine. 
1871. 



MARY TERESA MALONY. 

MRS. MALONY is a remarkably ready writer — the mechanical 
construction of her verse is not always faultless, but nevertheless 
possesses the true ring of genius. Her frequent contributions to the 
New Orleans " Times," dated San Jose, CaL, over her full name or 
initials, have been extensively copied by the newspaper press from 
Maine to California. Mrs. Malony is a great admirer of the poems 
of Felicia Hemans, and some of her productions are too much imita- 
tions of the verse of this gifted lady. Her "stately verse" is very fine, 
as are her descriptive pieces. On account of the length of these poems, 
we are unable to quote. 

Mrs. Malony, whose maiden name was De Lacy, was born in Man- 
chester, England, in 1839. "While she was an infant her parents 
removed to New Orleans. The choirs of the Mississippi River, the 
hush of whose anthem dies on the lips of the Crescent City, were heard 



MAEY TEKESA MALONY, 155 

first after her cradle song. Here was she married ; here were her five 
children born — (like Mrs. Hemans, she has four sons ;) — and at this 
time, sojourning in the " Golden Land," San Jose, California, she looks 
forward longingly to an early return to the "home of lang syne," 
within sight and hearing of the " Big River." 
1871. 



DEAD IN THE STEEEAGE. 

Seven years old, and the delicate rays 

Of shaded Italian skies 
Faded then out from a dear smiling place — 

Her childish, beautiful eyes. 

She was but poor, with the foreign speech 

Of her parents' kindred land — ■ 
Strangers, and sorrowful, standing, each 

Just holding a small dead hand. 

The engine clanked — they were going slow — 
The waters grew shallow and green; 

They made her a grave, when the ship " lay to/ 
In the Mexican hills between. 

Her coffin was boards of the roughest pine, 

Unflowered, untinted of hue, 
But over and under they did entwine 

A flag of the starry blue. 

Into the long-boat lowered it — then 
The plash of the oars dipped low, 

Bearing it over the soft waves, when 
The sun was brightest at glow — 

When the sun was brightest, at summer glow, 

That never would set for her; 
The shoal was broad, like a glad young brow, 

And the bay- washed shells astir. 

Like pulses of some child-heart at play 
With the tides and throbs of life, 

There's where they made her a grave that day, 
Far, far from the days of strife. 
San Jose, Cal. 



156 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 



A HOME OF LANG SYNE. 

My father planted the China trees 

That cover its old roof o'er, 
And brothers and sisters played in the breeze 

That wandered by its door. 
But some are gone far over the seas, 

And some will play no more; 
They 're laving their wee tired feet in the waves 

That wash Eternity's shore. 

Well I remember the creeping vines, 

With their blossoms purpling through, 
And the roses, that laughed to the summer winds, 

And the violets sweet, that grew 
Near the little glass door, with its clear white panes, 

That charmed the sunlight through 
On the pine floor in shading stains, 

With many a varying hue. 

And the dim old loft, with its books " galore," 

That many an hour beguiled 
With their pictures of grim old kings of yore, 

And many a legend wild. 
And then the charms of the other old loft, 

All sweet with the new-mown hay, 
That tempted my wandering feet so oft 

To find where the hens would lay. 

And the wild, wild songs we used to sing, 

Coming from school in the field; 
Oh ! the joy that in their tones did ring 

No music on earth will yield. 
And the old oak-trees that grew in a clump 

That we were afraid to pass, 
Where the "ghost" who reigned might be only a stump, 

And the sounds the waving of grass. 

Don't you remember, dear L , the night 

That we had to pass it by — 
All the prayers we said — and the fright 

We suffered — you and I — 



A CRESCENT CITY COTERIE. 157 

And how closer together we pressed, 

Walking as fast as we could? 
Ah! how happy we were — and blessed, 

When we were past the wood. 

How many woods, darker and drear, 

We meet in the journey of life, 
With no clasping hand to quiet our fear, 

But all alone in the strife! 
But we may remember the prayers we said, 

And walk straight on to the right, 
Until we come to the edge of the wood, 

And enter Eternity's light. 



>>©<< 



A CEESCENT CITY COTERIE. 

INHERE is much literary feeling in the city of New Orleans, and 
. numerous writers there reside. The literary journals — the " Sun- 
day Times" and the "Picayune" in particular — have always paid 
liberally their corps of special contributors. Among these writers, I 
will make mention of those not otherwise noted, who are prominent as 
promising litterateurs. 



MATILDA A. BAILEY. 

Mrs. Bailey has for over two years been a regular contributor to the 
" Times." A series of sketches entitled " Heart Histories," by " For- 
lorn Hope," have been very popular. Notwithstanding the adjective 
prefixed to the beautiful pseudonym, her articles are the embodiment 
of " hope." She has also written comic articles under the name of 
" Sam Waggle," which were attributed to a masculine pen. 

Mrs. Bailey is a daughter of Dr. F. R. Alpurente, a physician of 
New Orleans, where she was born. 



158 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



FLORENCE BURCKETT. 

This young lady, yet in the " spring-time of life," writing, under the 
graceful pen-name of " Edith Lee," prose sketches, made her debut in 
the " Times " about the same time as Mrs. Bailey and Mrs. Dalsheimer, 
in 1868. 

Miss Burckett is the daughter of a merchant of New Orleans — was 
born in Vicksburg, Miss., and removed to the Crescent City in her 
childhood. 



MARY CRESAP. 



Mrs. Cresap was born in Kentucky. Her maiden name was Annie 
Mary Marshall. She was early married. 

For twenty years Mrs. Cresap has lived in New Orleans. Many of 
her poems have appeared in " Godey's Lady's Book," also in the New 
Orleans papers. She possesses dramatic talent, and has written several 
parlor dramas for the amusement of her friends. 



ALICE DALSHEIMER. 

Mrs. Dalsheimer is a native of the Crescent City. Her contributions 
to the "Times," principally poetical, under the name of "Salvia Dale," 
have elicited encomiums and encouraging predictions of future success. 
She is a teacher. The following verse is from a poem printed in the 
" Times " in the summer of 1870. 

MOTHERHOOD. 

Two little arms around my neck, 

In artless, fond caressing; 
Two little lips upon my own 

Sweet baby-kisses pressing; 
Two sparkling eyes that beam with love 

Which knows no doubt or fearing; 



A CRESCENT CITY COTEEIE. 159 

A cooing voice that whispers soft 

Some lisping words endearing: 
These, these the spells that banish care, 

Life's sweetest solace bringing, 
And gratefully I clasp the joy 

From motherhood upspringing. 



MAEY GKEEN GOODALE. 

A quiet, almost a hidden life, leaves but little to be told which could 
possibly interest the public. Six years of incessant ministry in sick- 
rooms leaves few traces upon a life save those of sorrow or care. 

Since Miss Goodale first began to write verse — at the age of twelve 
— every emotion of her soul has found its most natural expression in 
verse. Under the name of " Edith Alston ," her poems have appeared 
in the journals of the day. She is a regular contributor to the 
" Picayune " — is a native of the city of New Orleans — expects to 
publish a volume of poems. I give two of her recent poems. 

MEPSISE. 

There was a spring, to which at dawn of day 
I went, and quaffs of sweetest coolness drew ; 

Then walked with firmer feet along the rugged way, 
Till day had fled, and softly fell the dew. 

Another draught at evening's quiet hour, 
Sent pleasant dreams to thread my gentle sleep, 

Till every weary limb had gained new power 
To climb the morrow's hills, however steep. 

One eve, the sun in more than gorgeous flame 
Had sunk to let the night o'erspread the sky, 

When I, full languid, to the fountain came — 
Alas ! its bed, its very source was dry ! 

ANSWERED. 



Pray for you? do I not always pray? Why, 
If it be cold, for you I ask for heat — 
Or if it should storm, that it may not beat 



160 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Upon you defenceless. I wake and cry 

At night to God, that His angels may fly 
Unto you to keep you, finding it sweet 
To be so near before Him. Spirits may greet 

When the body is distant. To be nigh, 

None saying " Nay ! " these hearts would mount so high 
They could not be reached. God, if it were meet, 
Could have it thus. When shall we turn our feet 

Into the same path? Time moves so slowly — 

And still, it will be yet, before we die — 
And then our joy will be so full — complete! 

Ti. 

But in all these years — through this delay, 
Will our God forget us, keeping so near 
As we do ? We say " Thy will," yet just here 

We sob, before whispering "be done." The way 

A child looks into mother eyes, to say 

Her fond heart — so I; that I may see clear 
Some faint wish arise, some kind thought appear, 

To teach me what to ask, for you — my stay — 

My one earth-comfort. How can I repay 
This love? Must I never show you how dear 
To me is your footfall — smile — at the mere 

Shadow of your passing ? Some birds use clay 

To build their nests : if so, I 'm sure I may 
Make earth-love lift me to a higher sphere. 

in. 

Your letter seemed to me a white-winged dove, 
And it lies on my breast all night and day. 
How I wish that I could in my turn say 

All my heart answers, so perfect in love, 

So Ml in devotion! How can I prove 
All these things to you, now you are away — 
No one else reads my heart — ay, although the fray 

Of cloth shows its texture, I do not move 

With their questions. Has not every grove 
Some glad bird to sing in it? So is the play 
Of your thoughts on my soul. Will you say, Nay, 

If I ask you for more — to sound above 

The world's din and care — all interwove — 
The sweet, with the bitter — love — when I pray ? 



A CEESCENT CITY COTEEIE. 161 



SARAH C. YEISER. 

Sarah C. Yeiser, born Smith, is a native of Vermont. She came 
South in girlhood. In 1847 she married Dr. Philip Yeiser, of Alex- 
andria, La. 

Mrs. Yeiser has been a successful teacher in New Orleans for many 
years. Her contributions to the "Crescent," of New Orleans, were 
signed " Azelee ; " yet her nom de plume of " Aunt Charity " is more 
familiar to Southern readers. 

As a woman of scholastic attainments, Mrs. Yeiser deserves notice. 
Being a lover of God's grand handiwork, she has made the material 
world her lifelong study, and her familiarity with the science of nature 
is equalled by few scholars of either sex. 



SAMUELLA COWEN. 

MRS. CO WEN is the posthumous daughter of the Hon. Samuel 
Wright Mardis, member of Congress from the State of Alabama, 
and an eminent lawyer. She was born May 6th, 1842. While an 
infant, her family removed to New Orleans, where Samuella grew up, 
was educated, and was married. 

From an early age she evinced a talent for literary composition. 
Her first novelette was written for the " Mirror," a literary paper con- 
ducted by Mr. Bigney, the present editor of the New Orleans " Times." 

During the war, Mrs. Cowen made Richmond her sojourning place, 
as her husband was in the Virginia army. It w T as here she made her 
literary talent of monetary value by writing for the " Southern Lite- 
rary News." A novelette, entitled " Creola," attracted attention, and 
was reviewed in several newspapers. " As the production of a young, 
untrained, and inexperienced writer, it evinced more than ordinary 
talent." 

While writing for the " Illustrated News," Mrs. Cowen adopted the 
pseudonym of " Le Clerc," which she has ever since retained. 

She is a resident of New Orleans. The following was published 
during the " war : " 
April, 1871. 
21 



162 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



FIRST LOYE. 

Like a tender violet bursting 

In the early morn of spring, 
Like the blush of dawn in summer, 

When the humming-bird takes wing, 
Is the young heart's first awaking 

From its calm and peaceful rest, 
When begins the stir of passion 

In the warm and throbbing breast. 

Now the cheek grows rich in blushes, 

And the eyes, with fitful light, 
Seem to stray in search of Eden — 

Seem to seek for something bright. 
And a thousand mysteries solemn 

Cling around the gentle soul, 
Like a rose-bud in the morning 

Ere its crimson leaves unroll. 

First love ! ah, who has not felt thee 

Thrill within their bosom's core, 
And wept burning tears of passion 

When its first sweet dream was o'er. 
Like a streamlet, clear as crystal, 

With the sunbeams on its breast, 
While the south wind, wreathing dimples, 

Shows a gentle heart's unrest. 
'Tis a star which rises early, 

Sinking soon to rise no more; 
'Tis the dew-drop on the flower 

Ere its blooming life is o'er. 

First love ! ah, we well remember 

Well, too well, that witching hour 
When our soul in tender rapture 

First divined thy magic power; 
Like a soul enshrined in ocean, 

Far from beaten track or shore, 
Thou of tears dost make a treasure, 

But thy spell returns no more. 



GEORGIA 




[autobiography.] l 

MRS. MARY E. TUCKER. 

^yUCrpES! seven cities claimed the honor of being the birthplace 
of the immortal " Homer " after he was dead. I, who am 
still living, have the credit of being born in three States, 
not to speak of countless numbers of cities. 

Georgia, State of my adoption — the Empire State of the South ! 
proud would I have been had thy red hills given me birth ; but — I 
was not born there. 

New York, because Staten Island had the honor of being the 
birthplace of my noble father, whose ancestors, the Huguenots, left 
France because of their devotion to a principle, thinks that I should 
have been born there : I was not. 

Providence, Rhode Island, the place of my mother's nativity, intends 
claiming me upon the plea that I have Yankee ingenuity and perse- 
verance ; but — I was not born there. Rhode Island is too small a 
State to claim me. 

That I was born, is an undeniable fact. My father says that 
Cahaba, Alabama, is the place of my nativity. 

Alabama — "Here let us rest!" — the beautiful name which was given 
my State by the Indian chieftain who, driven by the cruel white man 
from his native home, sought with his tribe to find peace and rest in 
the flower-land bordering on the beautiful river which still bears the 
name of "Alabama." The Indian found no rest — neither did I: in 
that respect the Indian and I resemble each other. 

Posterity may wish to know in what year the light of my genius 
burst upon the world. My enemies pronounce me somewhere near 
forty years of age ; my friends declare I do not look a day over 
twenty. Our family Bible was destroyed by the Yankee or negro 
incendiaries during the late "rebellion" — I use the word "rebellion " 
sarcastically, for I was a rebel, and I glory to own it — therefore, unless 
I choose to tell my age, posterity will never be the wiser. The Bible 

163 



164 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

said, before it was burned: "The 6th day of November, 1838, Mary E. 
Perine saw the sorrowful light of day." 

My mother ! Holy influences surround me. No cord of memory 
thrills at the sacred name of mother : only in dreamland have I seen 
her. She, the beautiful child of song — loving and beloved, pure as 
the flowers she cherished — died that I might live. 

They buried her under the orange-trees, and often, while a tiny child, 
have 1 sought the jasmine-covered grave, and wept for the love of mother. 

"Mary Eliza, beloved wife of Edward M. Perine, died in the twen- 
tieth year of her age. 

" ' Many daughters have done virtuously, 
But thou excellest them all.' " 

That is all. What more can I wish ? It is enough to make me vene- 
rate anything in the shape of woman who bears the sacred title of mother. 

My father ! It is said I am especially fond of gentlemen. Why 
should I not be ? My father was a gentleman ; and, judging all men by 
him — my standard of a true, honorable, noble image of the Almighty's 
master-piece — how can I keep, if simply out of respect for my father, 
from loving his sex? My father! That one word contained my 
child-world. He was to me all — mother, father, sister, brother, and 
everything except grandmother ; for I had a grandmother, and my 
earliest recollection is of a kind of buzzing in my ear as she vainly 
essayed to rock me to sleep in my little cradle. How could I go to 
sleep, when she would not hush talking? I remember distinctly that, 
exasperated to frenzy, I told her that if she did not let me alone I 
would make Uncle Wiley, our negro carriage-driver, cut her head off 
and throw her in the river. 

The power of conversing is a gift greatly to be desired, but I cer- 
tainly do not wish my children to inherit the fully developed organ 
of language of their great-grandmother. 

Perhaps I do wrong to mention the only failing, if the gift of lan- 
guage can be called a failing, that my grandmother possessed. I could 
fill volumes with her virtues. I can. never forget her untiring and 
unselfish devotion to me as a child, and to my own little ones, who, 
when her cords of memory quavered with age, took my place in the 
heart of the dear old lady ; and I seemed to her what my dead mother 
once had been. No — when I want an example of faith, hope, love, 
and charity, I have only to look upon my grandmother. 



MARY E. TUCKER. 165 

I suppose I must have been a very precocious child, for I know that 
I read the " Pilgrim's Progress," and the " Arabian Nights' Entertain- 
ments," and made love to my father's clerks before I was six years old. 

When I was eight years of age, my father married Miss Fanny E. 
Hunter, daughter of Judge John Hunter, formerly of Selma, Alabama, 
who was well known during his life throughout the Southern States. 

The sister of my step-mother married Col. Robert White Smith, of 
Mobile. Mrs. Smith was, a few years ago, one of the most beautiful 
ladies I ever saw, and is still very lovely. After my father's marriage, 
my grandmother went to Milledgeville, Ga., to take possession of some 
property which came to her on the death of her brother. I, of course, 
accompanied her. In Milledgeville, I was chiefly noted for my mass 
of peculiarly colored hair, which strikingly resembled the tendrils of 
the love-vine, which grows so plentifully in the marshes of the South, 
my light-blue pop-eyes, and also for my large feet and hands, which 
seemed to be forever in my own way, and in the way of everybody 
else. "They say " that I used to be a rhymist then — perhaps I was. 
I only know that every time I climbed a tree, or hid my grandmoth- 
er's spectacles, I was called bad or mischievous. Now, when my olden 
pranks are alluded to, they are termed the " eccentricities of genius." 
I was, of course, sent to school. Being considered fearless and ven- 
turesome, I was selected, together with a young classmate from the 
botany class, to search in the woods for wild flowers as specimens to be 
analyzed. We liked botany, but preferred zoology, and returned to 
the school-house with rare specimens. When the teacher opened the 
box, what was his astonishment and consternation to find it filled with 
tiny toads, which jumped out and covered the floor, and also a young 
owl, for which I had taken pains to climb into a hollow tree, to the 
detriment of my dress ! 

Poor old Doctor Cotting ! he was blessed with a deal of patience, 
but the frogs proved too much for him, and I was sent home with a 
message that nothing but the grace of God could do anything with me. 

As Topsy says, " I growed up," until I became a fair and goodly 
tree, as far as size was concerned. My father came to see me, and con- 
cluded that I, his eldest hopeful, needed pruning and training. For 
that purpose he brought me to New York. During my journey, I 
characterized myself, much to the mortification of my father and step- 
mother, by drinking lemonade from my finger-bowl, calling nut-crack- 
ers pinchers, and blanc-mange pudding — all owing to the want of 



166 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

proper training. I am glad now that my early years were spent with 
a poor grandmother instead of a wealthy father, for the economy prac- 
tised in her household gave me habits of frugality which I would not 
otherwise have possessed, and which proved invaluable to me during 
the war. 

My father placed me in a boarding-school in New York, where I 
remained one year only ; for I was fond of the creature comforts, and 
as I only received the flow of the soul, I left in disgust. My indul- 
gent parent then placed me in the "polishing mill " of Mrs. Leverett, 
who still has her school in Eighteenth Street; and to that establishment 
I am indebted for the elegance of manners for which I am so justly 
noted. 

Here let me mention that Mrs. Leverett was all to me that a tender, 
gentle mother could have been. She praised my talents, which she, 
even then, although I could not realize it, seemed to think I possessed; 
reproved me for my faults, and gently strove to correct or eradicate 
them. Mrs. Leverett's daughters were also very kind to me, and I 
remember with gratitude how they seemed to take the ignorant, rough 
Southern girl into their hearts. 

At last I was sent home accomplished. 

I was young, rich, and as for looks, why, I could pass in a crowd of 
ugly girls. 

^ Of course I fell in love. What fool does not ? I did not marry the 
object of my adoration. I fell in love again : this time I married, 
after first saying to my intended : 

" No, thou art not my first love : 

I had loved before we met ; 
And the^music of that summer-dream 

Still lingers round me yet. 
But thou, thou art my last love, 

My dearest, and my best ; 
My heart but shed its outer leaves 

To give thee all the rest " — Cabbage. 

After my marriage, my husband took me to his home in Milledgeville, 
Ga., where we lived with his mother for one year. They were all kind 
to me, and I loved them, but I was glad when my husband said that 
I should preside over a home of my own. 

The next year a little birdling came to cheer our nest, " My Gentle 



MARY E. TUCKER. 167 

Annie," my dark-haired child, whose deep-blue eyes and sad glances 
seem ever before me. Then came "Little Mary," the one the preachers 
call an " imp of mischief " — a white-haired fairy foundling, so loving, 
and so full of fun. 

Perhaps I was happy then : I do not know, but I think I was ; any 
way, we lived peacefully until the war commenced. It brought sor- 
row to all our land ; and I need not speak of its consequences to me, 
one of the million sufferers. 

When the struggle ended, my father and my husband said they had 
lost all. 

It is said, that to become a Christian, one must be born again : poets 
and Christians resemble each other, for 

"Poeta nascitur non fit;" 

and I know that the suffering I endured during, and after the close 
of the war, must have been the pangs of my second birth, which 
created a poetic nature I am sure I did not before possess. 

Leaving my home and little ones, with the full, free consent of my 
husband, and the approbation of my father, I came to New York, (I 
cannot speak of the sorrowful parting from my babies,) to seek my 
fortune as a journalist, and also to procure a publisher for a volume 
of poems which I had written at various times. 

It would be useless to tell how I struggled with poverty, but never 
lost my precious hope and faith ; and how, in time, I found and made 
friends by scores, Republicans and Democrats, who Completely ig- 
nored the political question, and gave me not only encouragement, but 
work, for which they paid me well. Say what you will about the cold, 
heartless nature of the true-born Northerner, I knoiv by sweet ex- 
perience, that, beneath the crust of snow, deep hidden in their hearts 
there blooms the fragrant flower of sympathy, whose perfume gladdens 
the heart of the homeless, when the outward ice is thawed by the 
knowledge that one is worthy, industrious, and not totally devoid of 
brains. 

Need I say that I succeeded ? and that those who advised me to 
remain at home and cook and wash dishes, (two kinds of work I could 
never endure,) and turned their heads the other way when they saw 
me, now greet me with smiles and say, " I always knew you would 
succeed, you were so persevering. " True, I am still away from my 
home and those I love, but soon, very soon, I hope to be with my dear 



168 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

ones, never to leave them again until the Great Master calls me to 
join my mother in that glorious land where all is love. 

I have given you a brief outline of my eventful life, in which I have 
stated the leading facts only. Hundreds of pages could I fill with 
my journeyings over the United States, and incidents which I am sure 
would prove interesting ; but you remember the old adage, that " shoe- 
makers' children always have to go without shoes ; " so I, who am con- 
stantly employed in writing the lives of others, cannot spare time to 
elaborate my own history. So I will only add, that if ever I become 
famous, it will be owing to the blessing, not the curse — necessity. 

1868. 

In 1867, M. Doolady, ISew York, published Mrs. Tucker's first vol- 
ume — "Poems." The "New York Tribune" says of this volume: 

"A volume of Poems, by Mary E. Tucker, published by M. Doolady, is 
apparently of Southern origin, and derives a certain interest from its expres- 
sion of Southern feelings during the war, and its allusions to the sufferings 
of the South since the restoration of peace. At the same time, it is not 
intended to exert a sectional influence, much less to nourish the sentiment 
of contempt and hate for the lovers of the Union. Nor is there any consider- 
able portion of its contents devoted to themes of local interest; but, on the 
contrary, they are drawn from the general experience of life, and depict the 
emotions which arise from its vicissitudes in a mind of more than ordinary 
sensitiveness. The poems are the effusions of an excitable nature with an 
ear attuned to the melodies of rhythm, and an experience familiar with the 
gradations of joy and sorrow. They do not pretend to be the exponents of 
deep thought, or to have been prompted by the highest impulses of the 
imagination. With their modest claims, they need not be brought to the 
test of an austere judgment ; and their frequent sweetness of versification, 
and their pleasant, if not brilliant fancies, entitle them to a respectable 
place in the poetry of feeling and aspiration." 

"Miles O'Reilly's" paper, "The Citizen," welcomes this volume 
thus : 

"Mrs. Tucker has prefaced this dainty little volume with her own portrait, 
and on first opening the book we wondered why she had published either 
the portrait or the poems. But between the two there is a striking resem- 
blance. After looking at the face for a little, you grow to like it for its kind, 
pleasing, truthful, womanly expression. And so, too, the verses, though 
they are not, strictly speaking, beautiful, improve vastly upon acquaintance. 
They are true and sincere in sentiment, and sufficiently smooth in versifica- 
tion. There is no affectation, no unhealthv sentimentality about them; but 



MAEY E. TUCKEE. 169 

many of them possess a simple, touching pathos that is infinitely above the 
simulated sorrow so dear to the school-girl mind." 

Says Professor A. B. Stark, of Tennessee, in a notice of this volume : 

"In the poems we find ample evidence of the poet's Southern origin and 
sympathies. But before reading the poems, we look at the preface — it is 
rude to skip the preface, the little, private, confidential foretalk the author 
wishes to have with the reader — and find it modest, naive, and winning, 
disarming one of the power of harsh criticism. Hear her : 

" ' Out of a simple woman's heart these rivulets of rhyme have run. They 
may not be great, nor broad, nor deep. She trusts they are pure. She 
wrote these verses often in sorrow, perplexity, and distress. . . . She will 
feel rewarded if, though these buds and flowers be not very beautiful, they 
give to any soul the perfume of simple truthfulness and genuine feeling.' 

"Well, her poems are neither broad, nor deep, nor brilliant. If you look 
into her volume for new ideas, philosophic thought, glowing imagery, deep 
insight into passions and motives, or an intense love of nature, you will be 
disappointed. But they are pure, simple, natural — the outgushings of a 
true woman's heart, sympathetic, kind, loving, truthful. "While reading 
them, you feel that you are in communication with an innocent, noble- 
hearted, Christian woman. There is no cant, no twaddle, no morbid senti- 
mentality — a negative merit, always appreciated by a healthful reader. 
Her volume belongs to that respectable class of books which afford pleasure, 
comfort, and recreation ; in their brief life doing some good, but no harm ; 
cheering some lonely, heart-sick wanderer ; sending out into the darkness a 
single ray of heavenly light, which may guide some poor, benighted soul 
amid the pitfalls of sin ; adding one sweet note to the grand symphony of 
joy and praise and thanksgiving swelling up from the hearts of all that 
are glad, and pure, and innocent on earth." 

"Loew's Bridge, a Broadway Idyl," a brief poem, was published 
by the same publisher, and attracted a great deal of attention. The 
poet views the moving throng on Broadway from Loew's Bridge,* a 
large aerial structure at the intersection of Broadway and Fulton 
Street, where the thoroughfare is continually thronged with vehicles 
of all kinds, rendering it almost impossible for pedestrians to pass. 

Mrs. Tucker has been a most industrious writer, contributing regu- 
larly to "The Leader," "Ledger," and other New York papers. Her 
latest ambitious effort was a "Life of Mark M. Pomeroy, Editor of the 
La Crosse Democrat, a Representative Young Man of America " — 
Carleton, publisher, New York, 1869. 

1S69. 

* This bridge has been recently taken down. 



170 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



HUGGING THE SHOKE. 

: Do you think you will hug the shore, captain, to-day ? ! 
Asked a saucy young flirt, with a smile ; 

With a crimson flush was dyed her cheek, 
And over her brow swept the roseate hue, 
While her eyes revealed in their dancing blue 
All the lips declined to speak. 

The captain glanced at the distant shore, 

And then at the maid awhile : 
The shore was distant, and she was near, 
' And the rose-tint deepened, as he said, " Dear, 

I '11 neglect the shore to-day ! " 

And around her waist crept the captain's hand — 
It was so much better than hugging dry land ! 
And he said, glancing over the vessel's bow, 
" The ship is hugging Cape Hatteras now, 
But I '11 hug the Cape of May." 



KINDNESS. 



One single word of heart-felt kindness 
Oft is worth a mine of gold; 

Yet how oft we, in our blindness, 
The most precious wealth withhold. 

Like soft dews on thirsting flowers, 
It revives the drooping heart; 

And its magical, blest showers 
Is the soul's best healing art. 

Oh! however sad and lonely 
Life's dark, sterile path may be, 

One, one single kind word only 
Causeth all its gloom to flee. 

How can we know of the troubles 
That must rack another's soul! 

All must know that empty bubbles 
Of life's cares o'er all heads roll. 

Then, forgiving and forgetting, 
Let for aye the kind word fall; 



MARGIE P. SWAIN. 171 

Only our own sins regretting 
With a charity for all. 

Then this life will be a pleasure, 

When we all speak words of love; 
For we know our earthly measure 

Will be more than filled above. 



MISS MARGIE P. SWAIN.* 

THIS young writer is a native of Taliaferro County, in the State of 
Georgia ; but in early life she became a resident of Alabama. 
Her home is with her adopted parents, Mr. and Mrs. E. J. Swain, of 
Talladega County, 

The great civil war, at its inception in 1861, found Miss Swain, then 
scarcely entered on her teens, a pupil of White Chapel Female Semi- 
nary, near Talladega. At a period of life when most young girls 
are busying themselves with lessons in geography or algebra, her 
daring mind actually planned and executed " Lochlin," a regular 
" romaunt of the war," in iambic verse. It was completed, and put 
through the press at Selma, Alabama, at an age younger than that 
at which a vast majority of the poets have made their way into the 
publication vestibule of the temple of fame. The first edition of this 
poem abounded with typographical and other errors, resulting in 
great part from the manifold difficulties experienced by publishers as 
results of the war. In this first edition, the poem was entitled " Mara," 
for which the young authoress has substituted " Lochlin " in a new 
edition about to be published. 

Since the publication referred to in 1864, Miss Swain has spent a 
portion of her time at school ; has mastered an extensive course of 
literary and historical reading, and has written many other poems, 
soon likewise to be given by her publishers to the world. The most 
considerable of these is " Constantius," an historical drama of the times 
of the immediate successors of Constantine the Great. We venture 
the prediction that Miss Swain's " Constantius " will prove a decided 
triumph in the difficult art of dramatic composition, and a faithful 
portraiture of Roman life in the fourth century. Her minor poems, 

*Miss Swain was married at Rome, Ga., January 15th, 1S71, to Mr. Mosely, editor 
and proprietor of the Rome " Daily." 



172 LIVING FEMALE WRITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 

sufficient of themselves to form a respectable volume in point of size, 
display great versatility of powers, range of information, rhythmical 
aptitude, and rare poetic beauty. 

And yet all these works of her genius have been produced while she 
has so constantly been seen in the school-room, or the gay circle of 
thoughtless companions, that it is wonder to those who know her best 
how or when they were written. This fact is of itself a high commen- 
tary on the force of her genius, and creates higher hopes for her future 
great and lasting eminence in literature. A manifest improvement in 
her later productions is visible ; and as she has before her all of that 
period of life when the full maturity of her intellectual powers may 
be expected to be realized, other works, surpassing those already pro- 
duced, may be confidently expected. 

In January, 1871, Miss Swain was literary editress of the Rome 
(Ga.) "Gazette." 

In person, Miss Swain is about the medium height, of fair complex- 
ion, handsome spirited features, and hazel eyes, that, when interested 
in conversation, glow with singular brilliancy. In conversation, she 
seldom attempts to display those powers which she seeks to wield 
through her pen ; but when occasionally interested by a congenial 
companion, her conversation is peculiarly instructive and fascinating. 
If she can happily steer clear of the maelstrom of matrimony, and life 
and health be spared to her in the pursuit of literary renown, we con- 
fidently predict for her an eminence in the world of letters not excelled 
by that of any of her countrywomen — and we even hope that she may 
surpass them all. 

1869# ■ — - w. GL McAdo. 

VANITAS. 

Ah, vainly we sigh for the summer 

That dwells in the land of fair flowers ; 

And vainly we strive for the pleasures 
And the bliss of happier hours ! 

For joy is a flower that bloometh 

At morning, and fadeth at night; 
The mem'ry thereof is outblotted 

By thoughts which each day brings to light. 

Care roots up the planting of pleasure; 

The heart is the seat of all woe; 
The worst of all pains is its throbbings, 

Those pains that kill life as they go. 



MARGIE P. SWAIN. 173 

Love rises, entrances, and leaves us, 

And hopes drift like leaves before wind; 
All bright things and sweet take their leavings, 

But sorrow remaineth behind. 

How vain are the dreams which we cherish — 

Those dreams in the dark future's mines ; 
They melt as the foam of the ocean, 

And die like the music of rhymes! 

When all things we have that are given, 

Satiety is but the crown; 
And while in the chase of strange visions, 

In death's darkened vale we go down. 

Then, oh! for a land of all beauty, 

Where dwell eth the light of old days — 
The soul is not cheated by falseness, 

And joy has bright, genuine rays. 



THE LAST SCENE. 

The last gun had sounded defiance to foes, 

Each sword in its scabbard was lying ; 
Each vet'ran stood sternly, and thought on his woes, 

And wept that his country was dying. 

Our rifles were stacked, and our cannons were laid 
In graves o'er which heroes were weeping ; 

We gazed on our banners the last time displayed, 
And envied those then 'neath them sleeping. 

Our chieftain and hero in sorrow passed by, 
Yet proud — 'neath its pall never drooping; 

We loved him — we cheered, yet our shout rose not high; 
Our hearts were to destiny stooping. 

We saw our proud banner, now conquered, fall low, 

And that of the foe rise above it ; 
We felt that its folds should wave o'er us no more, 

And wept — for then most did we love it. 



174 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

We looked on our squadrons bowed down 'neath despair, 

And thought on the dead clothed in glory ; 
Gazed, through blinding tears, on our country's black bier, 

And longed to lie down with the gory ! 

We thought on our glory — our loved ones afar — 

The long years of toils and of dangers ; 
Then trembling, clasped hands, we worn brothers in war, 

And proudly we parted 'mid strangers ! 



THE SENTINEL OF POMPEII. 

Dr. G-uthrie tells us a touching story of the fidelity of a Roman soldier at the destruc- 
tion of Pompeii, who, although thousands fled from the city, remained at his post, be- 
cause dishonorable to abandon it without being relieved, and died a death of useless, 
but of heroic devotion. He says: "After seventeen centuries they found his skeleton 
standing erect in a marble niche, clad in its rusty armor, the helmet on its empty skull, 
and its bony fingers still closed upon its spear." 

Thick darkness had lowered, Vesuvius had sounded, 

The flame of his wrath arose high in the sky ; 
Dense volumes of thick smoke the mountain surrounded, 

And lay like a pall over doomed Pompeii. 

Far, far in the distance the peal of his thunder 
Vibrated, and shook the firm earth with its sound ; 

While, to his hot centre the mount rent asunder, 
Ked rivers of lava in fierceness poured down. 

And thousands were gazing in fear and in horror, 
And thousands, inured to it, dreamed not of doom ; 

But soon e'en the fearless beheld with deep sorrow 
That ashes the city — themselves, would entomb. 

Like snow-flakes, those ashes of dire desolation 

Came thick, fast, and stifling, with burning-hot stones : 

While momently grander the fierce conflagration 
Loomed up in the distance, with death in its tones. 

And near to the gate that looked out on the mountain, 
A sentinel stood with his spear, keeping guard ; 

He saw the hot lava boil up like a fountain, 
And heavily roll on the city toward. 



KATE A. DU BOSE. 175 

He thought of his dear wife alone in her anguish, 

The helpless ones weeping beside her in fear; 
" Yet not e'en for sweet love must duty e'er languish," 

He murmured, and clasped again tightly his spear. 

The hours passed slowly — none came to relieve him ; 

He called to his leader: " How long must I stay ? " 
Yet not for his life would that soldier deceive him, 

But stood to his post through that terrible day. 

He saw the dark ashes entombing the city ; 

He saw them rise up inch by inch to his chin ; 
He looked on the burning flood, and in deep pity 

He uttered one prayer for his home, and was dead. 

The city was covered, the lava flowed over, 
And beauty and manliness, childhood and age, 

And rich things and beauteous now to discover, 
Were buried below by Vesuvius' rage. 

Years, long years have passed, yet that sent'nel is standing, 

All helmeted, now disinterred, near his post ; 
And pilgrims, aweary at Pompeii landing, 

Look on him, the strangest of all her strange host ! 

KATE A. DU BOSE. 

MKS. DU BOSE is the eldest daughter of Eev. William* Richards, 
of Beaufort District, S. C. She was born in a village in Oxford- 
shire, England, in 1828. Shortly after her birth, the family came to 
the United States, and settled in Georgia, but removed in a few years 
to their present home in Carolina. 

In 1848, she was married to Charles W. Du Bose, Esq., an accom- 
plished gentleman, and lawyer of talent and ability, of Sparta, Geor- 
gia, where they still reside. 

Mrs. Du Bose was educated in Northern cities, but for some years 
was a teacher in Georgia, her adopted home. 

At an early age, she gave indications of a love of letters, and had 
she chosen to " break the lance " with professional contestants for lite- 
rary honors, she must have won distinction and an enviable fame. 
But as a bird sings because it must find vent for its rapture, or as the 
heart will overflow when too full for concealment, thus with her writ- 



176 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

ings. Her productions have been given to the public from time to 
time, through journals and magazines, generally under the nom de 
'plume of "Leila Cameron." Some of her best poems appeared in the 
"Southern Literary Gazette," published in Charleston, and edited by 
her brother, Rev. William C. Richards, now a resident of Providence, 
R. I. The " Orion Magazine," of Georgia, was also favored with con- 
tributions from her pen, and in its columns appeared the prize poem, 
entitled " Wachulla," the name of a famous and wonderful fountain 
near Tallahassee, Florida. This poem was deservedly popular, and 
if the spirit of the fountain had chosen a nymph from its own charmed 
circle to sing the praises of "beautiful Wachulla" and its surround- 
ings, the lay could not have gushed up from a heart more alive to its 
beauties and attractions than that of its talented author. 

In 1858, Mrs. Du Bose's first volume was published by Sheldon & 
Co., New York. This is a prose - story for the young, entitled, " The 
Pastor's Household" — a story of continuous interest, displaying nar- 
rative and dramatic power. The portraiture of " Lame Jimmy," one 
of the prominent characters — "a meek, silent boy," with paleface, 
and a look of patient suffering upon his young features — is admirably 
drawn ; and as we see him, as he bends over his desk at school, with 
his large eyes full of the light of intellect, poring over his books, we 
triumph in the truth that God sometimes gives the poor boy, in his 
threadbare coat, the princely endowments of mind which may win 
him distinction among the "world's proud honors," and crown him a 
king among men. 

As a member of a large family, all remarkable for intellectual 
acquirements, Mrs. Du Bose has been much favored in procuring an 
early and thorough cultivation. One of her brothers, Rev. William 
C. Richards, is not only widely known as a popular editor and writer, 
but is also the author of the "Shakspeare Calendar." Another bro- 
ther, T. Addison Richards, of New York, the poet and artist, is the 
principal* of the "School of Design for Women," established within 
the walls of Cooper Institute, New York. 

In her elegant home, where unpretending piety and domestic love 
are combined with refined and cultivated tastes, seen in all the sur- 
roundings, and where the patter of children's feet is heard, and their 
happy laugh echoes through its walls, Mrs. Du Bose forms the centre 
of attraction to a circle of friends, as well as that of home, and wears 
with equally charming grace the triple name of wife, mother, and 
author. leer. 



LOULA KENDALL ROGERS. 

LEOLA, a well-known nom de plume, falls on the ear softly, musi- 
cally, " as if the very personification of that ideality which ex- 
tracts inspiration from the whispering wind, the song of birds, the 
blush of flowers, the lightning's flash, and the thunder's roar." 

Miss Kendall is a graduate of the Wesleyan Female College, of 
Macon. In the home of her childhood, a charming country-seat in 
Upson County, Ga., there are so many lovely spots in her native 
county, so many " glen echoes " where one might imagine her a 
nymph " calling to sister spirits of the greenwood," we do not wonder 
that the gift of poesy is hers. 

Her ancestors were from North Carolina, and there is probably no 
family whose authentic history can be more closely traced through 
every period of the annals of that State. Her great-great-grand- 
father, who signed his name Joseph Lane, Jr., as far back as 1727, 
died at his residence on the Roanoke, in 1776. His youngest son, 
Jesse Lane, emigrated to Wilkes, near Oglethorpe County, Ga., and 
his descendants are dispersed through all the Western and Southern 
States; Gen. Joseph Lane, a candidate for the Vice- Presidency of the 
United States in 1860, and ex-Governor Swain, of Chapel Hill, North 
Carolina, being among the number. One of his daughters married 
John Hart, son of Nancy Hart, the famous heroine of the Broad 
River Settlement, and one of his grand-daughters was wife of Judge 
Colquitt, Senator from Georgia in 1847. Thus brought into close re- 
lationship with many of the highest families of the South, the subject 
of this sketch inherited the spirit of patriotism that prompted them 
to make any sacrifice, however great, for the welfare of their country. 
We do not know that we can introduce her in a more acceptable man- 
ner than by inserting here the following extract of a letter written 
by her without any thought of its publication, (1862.) Speaking of 
herself, she says : 

" I have always been a child of nature and lover of poetry ever since I 
can remember, though it is pleasure enough for me to lurk among flowers, to 
listen to their heart- voices, and remain silent while drinking with intoxicat- 
ing delight the sweets of far more gifted worshippers. Occasionally I cannot 
resist an inclination to snatch my own little harp from its favorite bed of 
violets ; but its rustic strains are simple, and not worthy of being placed 
among the productions of those whose gifted pens have gained for them a 
23 177 



178 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

reputation more enduring than gold. My first poem was written at eight 
years of age,, a grand attempt, which mamma carefully preserved. At dream- 
ing fourteen, I went to Montpelier Institute, once under the supervision of 
Bishop Elliott, and its fairy groves, sparkling streams, and * moonlit pa- 
laces ' grew more dear when I fancied them the abode of viewless beings who 
told me of all things holy and beautiful. My composition-book was filled 
with wild, weird imagery, and the geometrical figures on my slate frequently 
alternated with impromptu verses, which are still kept as souvenirs of that 
dear old place. Two years in Macon College (where prosaical studies and 
life's sterner realities crossed my path) almost obliterated the silly dream of 
my childhood; a dream of fame, which now has utterly departed, for I have 
long since ceased to pursue a shadow so far beyond my reach. I write for 
those who love me — that is all ; but if these wild flowers, gathered among 
the hills and streams of my native land — these untutored voices that speak 
to me from each nestling leaf, are able to dispel one single cloud among the 
many that overshadow our country, I have no right to withhold them. 

"There is no lack of talent in our bright Southland; but, under the sunlight 
of prosperity, it has never yet been brought out in all its strength." 

Of these " wild flowers and these untutored voices " we shall have 
but little to say, preferring to let them speak for themselves. She 
writes prose and poetry with equal facility, and her letters are models 
of literary composition ; for here she expresses herself with that gen- 
tle warmth and modest freedom that characterizes her conversation. 
As Mrs. Le Vert somewhere expresses it : " She seems to dip her pen 
in her own soul and write of its emotions." In company she is plain 
and unassuming, being wholly free from pedantry and pretension ; and 
yet she possesses great enthusiasm of character — the enthusiasm de- 
scribed by Madame De Stael, as " God within us, the love of the good, 
the holy, and the beautiful." 

"Leola" was quite a student, and accomplished much, though her 
advancement would probably have been greater had she possessed 
such a literary guide and friend as G. D. Prentice was to Amelia 
Welby. But, as has been said of another, when we consider the great 
disadvantages she must have labored under on an isolated plantation, 
far from public libraries, and far from social groups of literary labor- 
ers and artists, it seems to us that her writings reveal the aspirations 
of a richly endowed genius and the marks of a good culture. 

" Leola " is also exceedingly domestic, being, as she says, gifted with 
"a taste for the substantial as well as the poetry of life ; " a proof that 
poetry and the larder are not always separate companions, but may 



LOULA KENDALL ROGERS. 179 

exist together on very amicable terms. The productions of " Leola " 
consist of fugitive pieces dashed off under the inspiration of the mo- 
ment, many of them being published in the newspapers of the day. 
We would " as soon think of sittiDg down to dissect the bird whose 
song has charmed us, as to break upon the wheel of criticism poems 
springing so much from the heart-side of the author." 

Since the end of the war, Miss Kendall has become the wife of Dr. 
C. Rogers, and lives near Thomaston, Upson County, Georgia. 

1868. 



THE HEALING FOUNTAIN* 

"A nameless unrest urged me forward; but whither should I go ? My loadstars were 
blotted out : in that canopy of grim fire shone no star. I was alone, alone ! A feeling I 
had that there was and must be somewhere a Healing Fountain. From the depths of 
my own heart it called to me, Forward ! The winds, and the streams, and all nature 
sounded to me, Forward ! " — Carlyle's Sartor Resartus. 

On, on she wandered all alone, o'er deserts vast and dim, 

No hopeful ray to light the gloom, no spirit-soothing hymn ; 

The wearied heart no goal had found, all dark the future seeni'd; 

" There must be rest somewhere" she cried, and nought the toil deem'd. 

Elack shadows clung around the heart once filled with childlike trust, 
And tempters whispered in her ear, "Thy spirit is but dust/" 
Then she long'd to know, poor orphan child, if in another sphere 
She ne'er must meet with Lilly, to dwell forever there ? 

If the spirit's voice must ever cease, with life's dull care and pain ; 
If the midnight toil, her searches for Egeria's fount were vain? 
Beulah ! thy childhood's sacred haunts are truthful guides for thee; 
There rove at twilight's solemn hour, and lowly bend the knee. 

Yon lofty mountain's gilded height looks upward to the sky, 
E'en Nature's simplest voices tell the soul can never die : 
Then leave thy desert vast and dim, where erring feet have trod ; 
Each streamlet here, each bud and flower will speak to thee of God ! 

But onward still, child of toil ! by storm and tempest tossed ; 
Thy burning feet are wandering on, till childhood's faith is lost ! 
The scorching beam of summer sun poor Hagar scarce could bear, 
With no fount to slake her fever-thirst, no waters gurgling there, 

* Written after reading "Beulah," 1S59. 



180 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Till words of confidence and trust her parching lips express'd ; 
Then joyfully an angel came, and gave her peaceful rest : 
So Beulah might have found the balm to lighten every care — 
A spring to heal her aching heart — by strong and earnest prayer. 

The Healing Fountain ! Pure and bright those ripples near us gleam ; 
We need not roam o'er burning sands to quaff its crystal stream : 
Its whispering music oft we hear, a star shines from above, 
Illuming all with holy light — that star is Heaven's love. 



EMMA MOFFETT WYNNE. 

CRAGFONT is the title of a neat, unpretending volume, from the 
publishing house of Blelock & Co., New York, issued in 1867. 

The title-page stated that the book was by "a young Southern 
lady." It was the first production of Emma M. Wynne, of Columbus, 
Georgia. 

Like the majority of Southern books, "Cragfont" has been indis- 
criminately praised by w^ell-meaning but injudicious friends, whereas 
true criticism, while it might pain for a time, would in the end assist 
the youthful debutante on the field of literature. 

"Cragfont" is a book of promise. From the remarks of two readers 
of this book, we cull the criticisms we give. 

A writer in " Scott's Magazine," of Atlanta, praised : 

" Not sustaining carping Zoilus in his ill-nature, we think, with another, 
upon whose brow the greenest of laurel is still triumphantly worn, that ' to 
point out too particularly the beauties of a work is to admit tacitly that 
these beauties are not wholly admirable.' ' Cragfont ' is not without errors, 
such as all young writers are betrayed into ; but the flashings of genius so 
visible throughout the book overshadow and outweigh the faults, which, after 
all, are only the ' peccadilloes of the muse.' The plot of the book is finely 
conceived, the invention strong and vigorous, while imagination, that primary 
and indispensable requisite in a writer, like the touch of Midas, gilded every 
object that presented itself. The style is classical and elegant. The author 
seems to excel in the delineation of female character. They are all particu- 
larly fine and well sustained. 

" The heroine, Isabel Grattan, never grows commonplace, while the gay, 
sprightly Lizzie Armor wisely refrains from attempting a part too heavy. 



EMMA MOFFETT WYNXE. 181 

"While dealing in classical lore and antiquities, perhaps, a little too freely, 
there is a depth of tenderness and pathos running through the whole, that 
would tell at once it came from a woman's heart." 

A lady criticizes " Cragfont " thus : 

" In the first place, I began at the beginning and read the title-page. The 
little quotation from Cousin, and the longer one from Mrs. Browning, each 
came in for a share of study. I knew that these mottoes contain frequently 
the key to the whole matter which follows ; and so would I do ' Cragfont ' 
justice, and read these too. The second contained a hint which I resolved 
to profit by — to 

" ' Gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge 
Soul forward into the book's profound.' 

Very profound I have proved it — that is, some parts of it. The fair author 
evidently admires Miss ' Beulah ' Evans, and follows hard after the celes- 
tial flights of that learned lady. The title is not appropriate ; it might just 
as well be styled New Orleans, or New York, since the scenes are laid prin- 
cipally in these two cities, and 'Cragfont' only appears briefly in two 
chapters. This ' ancestral mansion' is a 'stylish' country residence for 
an American ; but perhaps in Tennessee they do live in ' turreted castles,' 
and perhaps they have 'rooks' in Tennessee, also. I don't know much 
about the ornithology of that State, but I had an idea rooks were confined to 
England. However, this may be merely a 'poetic license' to prove the 
unmistakable and indisputable aristocracy of our hero, as rooks are supposed 
to favor with their presence only the ancien regime. 

" ' Cragfont ' contains a variety of information, and a variety of languages, 
and a series of essays or dissertations on various subjects are scattered 
through the book. It exhibits talent and promise of future excellence ; but, 
in itself, is hardly a successful novel or book of essays — a ' half-way per- 
formance.' The writer, we feel confident, will yet make a worthy offering 
to Southern literature." 

The author of " Cragfont," Mrs. Emma Moffett Wynne, was born 
in Alabama, in 1844. Her father, Major Henry Moffett, removed to 
Columbus, Ga., a beautiful city on the banks of the Chattahoochee, be- 
fore she had completed her fourth year. She was very fortunate in 
having her steps first directed in the paths of learning by the accom- 
plished and talented authoress, Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, under whose 
tuition she was placed at the age of five years. 

In her fifteenth year, she went to the well-known Patapsco Female 
Institute, near Baltimore, entered at once the senior class, aDd gradu- 
ated the following year with much honor to herself, receiving a gold 



182 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

medal for proficiency in French. The following fall of 1860 she spent 
in Xew York, at the Spingler Institute, perfecting herself in music, 
French, Italian, etc. Owing to the "state of the country," she re- 
turned home early in the spring, (1861.) 

During the war, she occasionally contributed to the " Field and 
Fireside," published at Augusta, under the nom de plume of "Lola." 

She was married in May, 1864, to Major V. W. Wynne. 

Mrs. Wynne, being young, with native talent and habits of study, 
will, without doubt, enrich the literary world with many productions 
of rare merit. She has recently published an historical romance in 
some way connected with Maximilian, the late Emperor of Mexico — 
a tragic subject well suited to her pen — entitled "The Crown Jewels." 

In personal appearance, Mrs. Wynne is exceedingly prepossessing ; 
and this, combined with an elegance and vivacity of manner, renders 
her both attractive and fascinating. 
1870. 



LIFE'S MISSION. 

The mission of life is not always lofty, yet the duty of its accomplishment 
is none the less imperative. The account is required of the one talent as 
surely as of the five. The mountain is too steep and rugged save for men of 
stern mould ; yet in the valley the fields " are waiting for the laborers." How 
mistaken is the reasoner who would reserve to the sterner sex all those feel- 
ings of ambition, the reaching upward for higher and holier things ! How 
many of gentler natures have felt the unsatisfied longing for more knowl- 
edge, more power over their own minds ! When we go, with Mrs. Hemans, 
Mrs. Browning, and Jean Ingelow, through all the chambers of the soul, and 
listen to the music of their songs, we feel that within our hearts whole vol- 
umes of sweet poetry exist ; the power to word it alone is wanting. Just as 
those we love so dearly are never in this life quite near enough to us ; we 
would have them closer — heart to heart, soul to soul; this mortal body stands 
between. In our dreaming of the other world, we sometimes think that per- 
haps by our joy there will be these yearnings satisfied ; the spell of silence will 
be broken, and our own poetry, sweet, beautiful, heavenly, will fill our hearts. 



ANNIE E. BLOUNT. 

MISS BLOUNT is a native of Kichmond County, Va. She com- 
menced writing for her own pleasure and amusement at an early 
age, and many of her juvenile productions appeared in print under 
various signatures. 

She graduated at Madison Female College, Madison, Ga., with the 
very highest honors the institution could confer ; the president stating 
to the trustees and audience that she was the most perfect scholar he 
had ever graduated. 

After her graduation, although very young, Miss Blount assumed 
the editorial conduct of a literary paper, which, under her auspices, 
rapidly grew into public favor, and was widely circulated. Miss 
Blount, besides being literary editress of the "Bainbridge Argus," 
(which position she held for two years,) contributed to other Southern 
literary journals. She received a prize offered by a literary paper 
published in Newbern, N. C, for " the best story by any American 
writer." 

Mr. T. A. Burke, then editor of the " Savannah News," thus al- 
luded to her success: 

" An examining committee, composed of W. Gilmore Simms, the eminent 
novelist, Eev. B. Craven, President of the Normal College, N. C, and John E. 
Thompson, editor of the ' Southern Literary Messenger/ have awarded the first 
prize, a one-hundred-dollar gold medal, to ' Jenny Woodbine,' alias Miss 
Annie E. Blount, of Augusta, Ga., 'for the best story,' to be published in a 
Southern paper. We know Miss Blount well, and her success as a writer, 
both of prose and verse, is what her decided talent induced us to expect 
She is young — probably the youngest writer of any reputation in the coun- 
try, North or South — and, with proper study and care, she has much to ex- 
pect in the future." 

This story, "The Sisters," was printed in 1859, in the "Newbern 
Gazette." Miss Blount has received numerous prizes for poems and 

novelettes, offered by various papers. In the summer of , she was 

invited by the trustees and faculty of Le Vert College, Talbotton, Ga., 

183 



184 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

to deliver an original poem at their annual commencement. An en- 
thusiastic gentleman, in a notice of the " Commencement," says : 

" It was the privilege of the large audience to listen to a poem from Miss 
Annie R. Blount, of Augusta. Her subject seemed to be, ' The PoAver of 
Woman/ The reading elicited extraordinary interest It is im- 
possible for me to give any just idea of the poem, and I will conclude by 
saying, if I am ever called to the battle-field, I want the fair author to be 
there to read the concluding lines at the head of my column." 

The next summer, Miss Blount delivered a poem at the " College 
Temple" Commencement, Newnan, Ga. After the reading of the 
poem, the faculty of College Temple conferred on her the degree of 
"Mistress of Arts." 

In 1860, Miss Blount collected her poems and printed them in a 
book. The volume was dedicated to Hon. Alexander H. Stephens, 
under whose kindly auspices it was published. Considering the un- 
settled state of the times, the book sold well, and was highly compli- 
mented by the press. The fol lowing notice of the volume is from the 
pen of that graceful writer, Miss C. W. Barber, then editress of the 
" Southern Literary Companion" : 

" While looking over some book-shelves in our new home, the other day, 
we came, unexpectedly, across a volume of Miss Blount's poems. We had 
never seen the book before, and sat down at once ' to read, to ponder, and to 
dream.' Annie Blount has, in this unassuming volume, established her 
right to the laurel- wreath. She may now lay her hand confidently upon it, 
and few will dispute her right to its possession. We were not prepared to 
find so many gems in so small a casket ; we did not know that so sweet a 
bird carolled amid the magnolia groves of the South. 

"Letitia E. Landon won for herself a deathless fame in England and 
America. Wherein are her poems so greatly superior to Miss Blount's? 
Both have dwelt much upon the varied emotions of the human heart ; some- 
times it is hopeful, sometimes disappointed love that they sing about. At 
Annie Blount's age, Letitia Landon had certainly written nothing sweeter, 
deeper, or in any respect better than this volume of poems contains. Before 
she died upon the coast of Africa, she had, of course, gone through a wider 
range of experience than Annie Blount has yet done, and every phase of 
human life develops in us all some latent power. But, even in her last 
poem — an address to the ' North Star,' written only a few hours before her 
death — there is nothing superior to the following, which we copy from Miss 
Blount's Poem entitled, ' The Evening Star ' : 



ANNIE R. BLOUNT. 185 

" ' Where dwellest thou, my young heart's chosen one ? 
What glorious star can claim thee as its own? 
If it be true that when the spirit flies 
From earth it nestles in the starlit skies, 
What orb is brightened by thy radiant face? 
Methinks in yonder Evening Star I trace 
The light which circled o'er the brow I love, 
And fixed my wayward heart on things above. 



Sweet Evening Star, brighter than all the rest, 

Thou art the star my infancy loved best ; 

And still the fancy-dream my bosom swells, 

That there, with thee, my loved one's spirit dwells : 

I'll clasp the dear delusion to my breast, 

That it may quell this wild and vague unrest, 

And though from native land I wander far, 

I '11 turn to thee with love, bright Evening Star.' " 

Miss Blount resides with her brother in Augusta, Ga. 

1869. 



UNDER THE LAMPLIGHT. 

A PRIZE POEM. 

Under the lamplight, watch them come, 

Figures, one, two, three ; 
A restless mass moves on and on, 
Like waves on a stormy sea. 
Lovers wooing, 
Billing and cooing, 
Heedless of the warning old, 
Somewhere in uncouth rhyme told, 

That old Time, Love's enemy, 
Makes the warmest heart grow cold. 
See how fond the maiden leaneth 
On that strong encircling arm, 
While her timid heart is beating 
Near that other heart so warm; 
Downcast are her modest glances, 
Filled her heart with pleasant fancies. 
Clasp her, lover ! — clasp her closer — 
Time the winner, thou the loser I 
24 



186 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

He will steal 
From her sparkling eye its brightness, 
From her step its native lightness; 

Or, perchance, 
Ere another year has fled, 
Thou may'st see her pale and dead. 
Trusting maiden! 
Heart love-laden, 
Thou may'st learn 
That the lip which breathed so softly 

Told to thee a honeyed lie; 
That the heart now beating near thee 
Gave to thee no fond return — 
Learn — and die! 

Under the lamplight, watch them come, 

Figures, one, two, three ; 
The moon is up, the stars are out, 
And hurrying crowds I see — 
Some with sorrow 
Of the morrow 

Thinking bitterly; 
Why grief borrow ? 
Some that morrow 
Ne'er shall live to see. 
Which of all this crowd shall God 

Summon to his court to-night? 
Which of these many feet have trod 

These streets their last? Who first shall press 
The floor that shines with diamonds bright? 
To whom of all this throng shall fall 
The bitter lot, 
To hear the righteous Judge pronounce: 
"Depart, ye cursed — I know ye not!" 
Oh! startling question! — who ? 

Under the lamplight, watch them come, 

Faces fair to see — 
Some that pierce your very soul 
With thrilling intensity: 
Cold and ragged, 
Lean and haggard — 
God ! what misery ! 
See them watch yon rich brocade, 
By their toiling fingers made, 
With the eyes of poverty. 



ANNIE R. BLOUNT. 187 

Does the tempter whisper now: 
"Such maybe thine own!" — but how? 
Sell thy woman's virtue, wretch, 
And the price that it will fetch 
Is a silken robe as fine — 
Gems that glitter — hearts that shine — 
But pause, reflect ! 
Ere the storm shall o'er thee roll, 
Ere thy sin spurns all control — 
Though with jewels bright bedecked, 
Thou wilt lose thy self-respect ; 
All the good will spurn thy touch, 
As if 'twere an adder's sting, 
And the price that it will bring 
Is a ruined soul! 
God protect thee — keep thee right, 
Lonely wanderer of the night ! 

Under the lamplight, watch them come — 

Youth with spirits light; 
His handsome face I'm sure doth make 
Some quiet household bright. 
Yet where shall this lover, 
This son, this brother, 
Hide his head to-night? 
Where the bubbles swim 
On the wine-cup's brim; 
Where the song rings out 
Till the moon grows dim; 
Where congregate the knave and fool, 
To graduate in vice's school. 
Oh ! turn back, youth ! 
Thy mother's prayer 
Eings in thy ear — 

Let sinners not 
Entice thee there. 

Under the lamplight, watch them come, 

The gay, the blithe, the free ; 
And some with a look of anguished pain 
'T would break your heart to see. 
Some from a marriage, 

Altar, and priest ; 
Some from a death-bed, 
Some from a feast: 



188 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Some from a den of crime, and some 
Hurrying on to a happy home ; 
Some bowed down with age and woe, 
Praying meekly as they go ; 
Others — whose friends and honor are gone — 
To sleep all night on the pavement stone; 
And losing all but shame and pride, 
Be found in the morning a suicide. 
Rapidly moves the gliding throng — 
List the laughter, jest, and song. 
Poverty treads 

On the heels of wealth ; 
Loathsome disease 

Near robust health. 
Grief bows down 
Its weary head ; 
Crime skulks on 
With a cat-like tread. 
Youth and beauty, age and pain — 
Vice and virtue form the train — 
Misery, happiness, side by side ; 
Those who had best in childhood died, 
Close to the good — on they go, 
Some to joy, and some to woe, 
Under the lamplight — 
Watch them glide, 
On like the waves of a swelling sea, 
On, on, on to Eternity. 

MAKIA J. WESTMORELAND. 



M 



ARIA ELIZABETH JOURDAN is the third child and second 
daughter of Colonel Warren Jourdan and Mary J. Thornton, his 
wife — all Georgians. Mrs. Jourdan, at the ripe age of fifty-four years, 
has in preparation a practical " Cookery Book," which will be pecu- 
liarly adapted to the wants of young and inexperienced housekeepers. 
With Maria Jourdan, music was a passion. Having been so fortu- 
nate as to have always enjoyed the tuition of skilful masters, she 
became a proficient in the art, and, unlike most married ladies, she 
has never given up her favorite amusement, but devotes much time to 
familiarizing herself with the various operas. 



MARIA J. WESTMORELAND. 189 

Miss Jourdau's alma mater is the Baptist College located at La Grange 

— as it is also that of her not less gifted sister, Mrs. Madeline T. 
Bryan, who writes charmingly, both in prose and verse. A few weeks 
after the completion of her seventeenth birthday, Maria Jourdan 
became the wife of Dr. W. F. Westmoreland, of Atlanta, where she 
resides. Daring the war, Mrs. Westmoreland composed two very 
creditable dramas, which were entitled "The Soldier's Wife" and "The 
Soldier's Trials," and were performed at the Atlanta Athenaeum. 
The proceeds of the plays were donated to the destitute wives and 
children of those Atlantians who were in the Virginia army. 

Mrs. Westmoreland has a talent for essay writing and reviews. Her 
reviews of Owen Meredith's " Lucille " and Mrs. Browning's " Aurora 
Leigh " caused many to read those poems who would never have had 
that pleasure but for the rapturous praise pronounced by her upon 
these poems. She contributed to " Scott's Monthly " characteristic 
essays — conversational in style, abounding in humor, wit, and satire 

— under the signature of " Mystery." 

Mrs. Westmoreland has ready for the press a novel, to be published 
anonymously. She also contemplates publishing her " Essays " in a 
gala suit of " blue and gold." 

Atlanta, 1869. 



THE UNATTAINABLE. 

That indefinable longing — that hopeless yearning after what we have not 
— that craving of the human heart which is never satisfied — that irrepress- 
ible desire to go forth into the Invisible — to live in the ideal, forgetting 
and forgotten — to roam from star to star, from system to system, only hold- 
ing intercourse with the unseen spirits that dwell in this imaginary world ! 
Twelve hours of such existence were worth a whole lifetime tamely spent in 
eating, drinking, and sleeping ! We are taught that reason and judgment 
are more to be desired and cultivated than all the other mental faculties, 
while imagination is the least desirable, and, if indulged in, produces a list- 
less inertia, which erects an ideal standard of life, leading us into untold 
vagaries and idiosyncrasies. But, in the words of Mrs. Browning : 

" If heads 
That hold a rhythmic thought must ache perforce, 
For my part, I choose headaches." 

So, if imagination, on this je ne sais quoi, can carry us beyond this "vale 
of tears " — can stop for a moment Ixion's fatal wheel — can make Tantalus, 



190 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

in spite of his thirst, essay his efforts for water — then give us the ideal — let 
us dwell in the imaginary. First let us consider — what are we born for ? 
A purpose. What do we live for? — vainly pursuing that will-o'-the-wisp, 
Happiness, which, while we grasp it, glides through our fingers, and is gone. 
We die — hoping to reach heaven. Since Adam's expulsion from the Garden 
of Eden, human nature, in every age, in every clime, and under all circum- 
stances, has been the same. Empires have risen and fallen — men tempted 
and overcome — women flattered and betrayed — martyrs in every cause 
have perished on the rack and at the stake. And what is the cause of it 
all? Is it not that uncontrollable desire to "o'erleap our destinies," and 
penetrate the realms of the unknown ? We are undoubtedly born to fill 
some niche in the great walls of the world ; but where that vacancy is, few 
of us discover until too late, or, having found, still fewer go to work in real 
earnest to fulfil their allotted destinies. That "life is real, life is earnest," 
too few of us appreciate ; and that we are all rather blindly following some 
phantom, some ideal of the soul, is .too palpably true to be controverted. 
There is implanted in every human breast, with any aspiration at all, a 
heart-felt craving that will not be stilled — a something that preys upon our 
very lives as the vulture upon the vitals of Prometheus. It seeks to go 
beyond our present life, and fain would pierce the dim shades of futurity, 
hoping to find in its winding mazes that phantasm which did not reveal 
itself in the past, and which the present denies. 

These phantoms rise up from the shrine of ambition, and every other pas- 
sion to which mankind are prone. Does it not seem strange, that with all 
the lights of the past before us, we should so often be deluded ? Is it not 
stranger still that we should trust this ignis fatuus, knowing it has lured so 
many unwary pilgrims to destruction — these spectres, that lead us blindly 
on, and elude our very grasp when we stretch forth our hands to clasp them ? 
Each individual fancies himself the fortunate one who is to escape disap- 
pointment and sorrow — whose bark is to sail upon an unruffled sea, pro- 
pelled by propitious gales — still hoping to evade the fatal whirlpool, until he 
is irretrievably lost in its circling eddies. This "Wandering Jew," this 
restive demon is never at ease. Take the first mentioned of these phantoms 
— these invisible giants that crush as they bear vou onward : Ambition, for 
example. It is a monster of frightful mien, a fiend incarnate, which sacri- 
fices everything to gain its ends. It heeds not the cries of orphans, nor the 
prayers of widows. It sheds with wanton hand the blood of the brave, and 
gazes on the criminal with defiant scorn. It snatches from men their morals, 
from women their virtue. It turns love into hate — rends asunder family 
ties — disrupts governments — toils unceasingly on, ever on, and levels every- 
thing in its march to victory. Argus-eyed, it watches to add more victims 
to its list. The night is engrossed with plots which the day shall execute. 
When, at last — having forfeited honor, principle, friends, name, and every- 
thing worth living for — this proud Lucifer reaches the topmost round of 



MARIA J. WESTMORELAND. 191 

the ladder of fame, dragging its weary victims after it, we find, alas ! too 
late, that the dream of our lives, the Ultima Thule of our hopes, "like Dead- 
Sea fruit, turns to ashes on our lips." By ambition, angels fell ; and it can- 
not be expected that poor, frail mortals should win where seraphs failed. 



TALKING. 



What shall we talk about, then ? — and how ? Every one has felt the 
power of words, and been moved to tears or convulsed with laughter by 
their touching pathos or ready wit. The charm and fascination of talking- 
well refines and polishes men, while it elevates women. How delightful, 
upon the occasion of a dinner party, to have some one present who can relate 
an anecdote, repeat a poem, propose an appropriate toast, or sing a song ! It 
is said that at those " club " parties in London, years ago, where the most 
brilliant wits of the day were wont to assemble to enjoy "a feast of reason 
and a flow of soul/' the participants would study assiduously their speeches 
for a week before attending, thereby rendering them perfectly sparkling. 
Of course, then, the ready wit and unexpected puns, etc., would but increase 
their brilliancy. It is a well-known fact that Sheridan always prepared 
himself before attending those parties, at which he would meet the most 
polished wits. The "Xoctes Ambrosianse" of Edinburgh might be re- 
enacted in more parts of the world than one, if every one would only give a 
little more attention to these matters. 

But the " almighty dollar " is the curse, the Mephistopheles of Ameri- 
cans ; and even now I can hear some excessively practical person exclaim- 
ing, " What 's the use of it ? " " What will it pay ? " Why, the use of it is 
to cultivate the agreeable, and make that life which is but a span — a trou- 
bled dream at best — pass as pleasantly as possible. If it does not pay you, 
it will yield a rich harvest to your children. Just think how much more 
agreeable life would pass, should the whole world wear its "'company face " 
all the time, instead of going about growling and scowling about everything ! 
But, while you must cultivate your conversational powers, do not ignore the 
fact that the peculiar charm in entertaining lies not so much in talking 
yourself as in touching upon some favorite topic of the person addressed, 
and in listening in the most deferential manner. This was Madame Beca- 
mier's forte. She was very beautiful and attractive, but did not converge 
nearly so well as many of those brilliant women of Paris during her day ; 
but she possessed sufficient tact to touch the right chord in others, and, with 
her lovely eyes resting upon their faces, and seemingly drinking in every 
word as though it had been inspired, she entered into their conversation con 
amore, and left each one under the impression that he was her beau ideal of 
manly perfection. Does not this go far in proof of the doctrine that men 
love pretty, silly women, who can hand them their slippers and robe de 



192 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

chambre, and draw them a cup of tea, ten times more than they do an intel- 
lectual woman, who can be a companion for them. It is a melancholy fact 
that highly cultivated and intellectual women only call into existence a 
kind of cold admiration from the other sex; and while their hearts are 
breaking and longing for love and sympathy, they find that it is all bestowed 
upon some little weak, namby-pamby, dependent creature, who does not nor 
cannot appreciate it. And thus time flies by on lightning wings, and ^ e 
stand upon the very brink of eternity before we know that we have lived, or 
understand the duties and demands of life. 

The Countess of Blessington is represented as a great talker, but so spark- 
ling and witty that she always drew around her the most cultivated and 
polished men. On the contrary, while Madame de Stael is conceded to have 
been the most gifted female writer who ever lived, in conversation she ha- 
rangued rather than entertained, until, intellectual as she was, the men would 
actually fly from her. Her excessive vanity sometimes placed her in very 
ridiculous positions. Everybody is familiar with the story of herself and 
Napoleon, when she asked him who was " the greatest woman in France? " 
and his reply, " She who bears the most children, and gives to France the 
greatest number of soldiers." Her vanity led her to suppose that the Em- 
peror would say, " Why, Madame de Stael, of course." On another occa- 
sion she and Madame Eecamier were conversing with Talleyrand ; or, to use 
his own expression, he was " sitting between wit and beauty." Madame de 
Stael propounded the following question : " Monsieur Talleyrand, if Madame 
Eecamier and yourself and myself were taking a little excursion upon the 
Seine, and the boat were to capsize, which one of us would you attempt to 
rescue? " Like a genuine Frenchman, he replied : " I should endeavor to 
rescue both." A little piqued at his reply, Madame de Stael said : " Well, 
you know you would have some preference ; which one of us would you 
save ? " He replied again : " I should extend a hand to each one." Irri- 
tated beyond concealment this time, Madame de Stael said angrily : " Tell 
me ! which one would you rescue ? You know it would be impossible to 
save both." True to his French nature, Talleyrand gallantly replied : " You, 
who know everything, Madame de Stael, should know that also." Thus he 
extricated himself from his embarrassing position by complimenting (and 
justly, too) her intellect. This is a specimen of ready wit which is rarely found. 

Nothing can more finely portray the power of words than the famous 
speech of Napoleon to his army, just preceding the battle of the Pyramids, 
in which he said : " Soldiers ! from those summits forty centuries contem- 
plate your actions ! " Do you suppose they would have been fired with 
the enthusiasm and patriotism which made them conquering heroes, if he 
had said: "Boys! that huge pile of rocks are gazing at you?" Never! 
Then, if there be such a charm and fascination in conversing well, let us all 
ignore that which is vulgar and commonplace, and cultivate to the highest 
extent the " unruly member." 



MISS MARIA LOU EVE. 

WHAT this lady has published has attracted attention, and gives 
promise of future excellence in some work of an extended char- 
acter. Miss Eve has received several prizes for essays. The prize 
essay furnished to " Scott's Magazine " in 1866, entitled, " Thoughts 
about Talking," was very readable. 

Miss Eve was born at Woodville, near Augusta, Ga. She has 
contributed occasionally articles to various Georgia journals, and has 
two novels in manuscript, which may never delight this generation of 
readers. Writing, with her, has been an occasional amusement only. 
Her residence is in Richmond County, Ga. 

1869. 



SINCERITY IN TALKING. 

And apropos of the foundations of talking, there is also an old-fashioned 
idea, now nearly obsolete, nous avons change tout cela, that they should rest 
more or less upon truth as their basis ; and despite all theories to the con- 
trary, there is a certain satisfaction in feeling that we may rely implicitly 
upon the statements that are made to us, especially upon professions of es- 
teem or regard. 

We all carry with us into the business transactions of life a certain alloy 
of skepticism, and receive each statement Yv r ith a few grains of allowance, 
not feeling bound to believe that each flimsy fabric will last until we are tired 
of it, simply because told so by the obliging shopkeeper ; but in the social 
relations of life there are some things that we would like to receive upon 
faith. If we could only believe all the pleasant things told us by our friends, 
what a charming world would this be ! And when our particular friend, 
Mrs. Honeydew, tells us she is delighted to see us, have we any right to ques- 
tion her sincerity merely because we happened to overhear her say, " Those 
tiresome people again ? " We had no business to hear what was not intended 
for us. Why should we go peering behind the scenes, where all is so fair and 
specious on the outside ? 

If we should all commence telling the truth at once, what a grand smash- 
up of the great social machine ! What a severing of long-standing friend- 
ships — what a sundering of ties ! Madam Grundy would hang herself in 
25 193 



194 LIVING FEMALE WHITE KS OF THE SOUTH. 

despair. If I should tell my dear friend, Araminta, that her new bonnet is 
horrid — simply because she asks me how I like it, and that is my honest 
opinion — would she ever speak to me again ? Or would you endure the pre- 
sence of the man, though he were your best friend, who should tell you that 
your two-forty nag shuffles in his gait? Alas ! which of us would not, like 
True Thomas, have refused the gift of the " lips that could never lie" ? 

Yet,, let us not linger too long on the wrong side of the embroidery frame, 
picking flaws in the work, but only see to it that our fingers weave no un- 
worthy figures on the canvas. 

What a wonderful thing, after all, is this matter of talking ! Words — 
words ! Deeds are as nothing to them. It is said that love requires pro- 
fessions — but friendship demands proofs in the form of actions. But was it 
by deeds of kindness or devotion that whimsical, prating old Jack Falstaff 
so endeared himself to the heart of Prince Hal as to call forth that most 
touching and suggestive tribute, " I could have better spared a better man," 
upon hearing that his old boon companion was killed ? We can better spare 
the man who has saved our life than the one who makes it pleasant by his 
society, the pleasant companion who made it worth the saving. Blessed for- 
ever be the art of talking ; and blessed be the men and women who, by their 
pleasant, sunshiny talk, keep the heart of this gray-haired old world as fresh 
as ever it was in its prime. The pleasant talkers, may their shadows never 
grow less ! 



MISS KATE C. WAKELEE. 

MISS WAKELEE is one of those talented women who have yet 
to make a literary career. A friend of hers says : " Of all 
shrinking and modest women, Miss Wakelee is most so." For twelve 
years she has written constantly, but, mimosa-like, has shrunk from 
the ordeal of publication. A story from her pen appeared in the " Sat- 
urday Evening Post," Philadelphia, and one in the " American Union," 
Boston. In 1863, the novelette of " India Morgan ; or, The Lost Will," 
was a successful competitor for a prize offered by the " Southern Field 
and Fireside " newspaper. A novelette entitled, " The Forest City 
Bride," a tale of life in Savannah and Augusta during the war, fur- 
nished to " Scott's Magazine," was a lifelike narrative. Miss Wakelee 
is very natural indeed in her delineations of life and manners. 

Before the war, Miss Wakelee wrote only to please her friends. The 
following tribute to the brave commander of the ill-fated steamship 
"Central America," printed in Godey's "Lady Book," December, 
1858, was from her pen : 



KATE C. WAKE LEE. 195 

TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN HEENDOX. 

A song for the brave — let it roll like the sea 
From every red lip that has pillowed a prayer, 

From every warm heart gush boundless and free, 
Ee-echoed by angels through viewless air, 

Wide spreading in beauty, and swelling with might, 

From the east to the west, on the wings of the light. 

An anthem of praise for the hero who stood, 
Undaunted and firm, in the battle of death — 

Below him, deep thund'rirjg, the boiling flood, 
Above him, in fury, the wild tempest's breath ; 

No thought of himself, despair, or the grave, 

While there was a woman his mercy could save. 

A single thought stirred his heart's quivering strings — 
He heard, for a moment, the music of home ; 

His brain madly reeled, while his straining eyes gazed 
Unblenched on his fate — a swift-speeding doom. 

His livid lips set, and his white brow grew pale ; 

But his hand nobly wrought, his soul did not quail. 

Down, down in the depths of the deep he may lie, 
The spot all unmarked to the swift passer o'er, 

But his name, like a star, shall be set in the sky, 
And woman forever his mem'ry adore: 

Bright angels descend to his pillow at even, 

There keep watch until Earth shall melt into Heaven. 

Like most of our Southern women, Miss Wakelee is comparatively 
impoverished, and her pen must become a " mighty instrument." 

Miss Wakelee was born in Connecticut, a great-granddaughter of 
Governor Law, of that State ; but she has lived so long in Georgia, 
has so thoroughly identified herself with the interests of that State 
and the South, that no one ever remembers she was not to the " ma- 
nor born." 

Miss Wakelee is elegantly educated, polished in manners, of a cheer- 
ful and sympathizing temperament, making her, as a gentleman re- 
marks, the friend and favorite of everybody. She is charming in 
conversation, and her manuscript is neat and legible. 

Her home is* in Kichmond County, Georgia — a county that is noted 
for the intellect of the fair daughters thereof. 
1869. 



CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR. 

A CHARLESTON journal calls Miss Sinclair "one of the sweetest 
muses that ever warbled the simple history of a nation's dead." 
By her many patriotic poems she is best known. 

Miss Sinclair has passed nearly all of her life in Georgia, which is 
her native State, having been born in Milledgeville, the capital of the 
State. Her father, the Rev. Elijah Sinclair, a Methodist minister, 
was a native of South Carolina, as was her mother, and had just 
entered upon his ministerial labors as a member of the Georgia Con- 
ference when Carrie was born. The Rev. Mr. Sinclair was of Scotch 
descent, his mother being a sister of Robert Fulton, the inventor of 
the first steamboat. He labored faithfully as a minister of the gospel 
until within a few years of his death, when failing health compelled 
him to leave the pulpit. At the time of his death, the Rev. Mr. Sin- 
clair was teaching a school for young ladies in Georgetown, S. C. He 
left his widow and eight daughters — the eldest only married. Carrie 
Bell was a child at this time, and felt this great sorrow as only one 
who is possessed of a poetic temperament can feel. Some three years 
after the death of her father, a younger sister died, and his grave was 
opened that the child's dust might mingle with his. It was upon this 
occasion that Carrie Bell penned her first rhymes, telling her childish 
sorrow in song. Soon after, her mother removed to Augusta, and then 
she commenced her literary career, writing because she could not 
resist the spell that lingered around her, and not that she had any 
desire to venture upon the road to fame. Her first appearance in 
print was in a weekly literary paper published in Augusta, "The 
Georgia Gazette," under signature of " Clara." 

In 1860, she published a volume of poems in Augusta, of which says 
a reviewer : " Here and there the poetical element glitters through like 
the sunlight between fresh green leaves, and shows that she possesses 
some of the elements necessary for success. 

" 'If the mind with clear conceptions glow, 
The willing words in just expression flow.' 
1 ( JG 



CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR. 197 

If the debutante has not given us a tree capable of sheltering us 
beneath its branches, she has at least presented us with some modest 
flowers, which we may gracefully wear on our breasts." 

Shortly after the publication of this volume, she went to Savannah 
to reside, and, although not entirely abandoning the field of letters, 
yet she felt that new duties claimed her attention, and she could not 
be content to tread only the flowery fields of poetry and romance 
while war waged its wild desolation around her ; and she turned her 
attention to the wants of the soldiers, and, when she wielded the pen, 
it was that she might in some way aid in the cause of her bleeding 
country, or record the deeds of her brave heroes in song and story, 
Of one of Miss Sinclair's poems, " The Southern Girl's Homespun 
Dress," the following remarks were made in " Frank Moore's Anec- 
dotes and Incidents of the War, North and South " : 

" The accompanying song was taken from a letter of a Southern girl to her 
lover in Lee's army, which letter was obtained from a mail captured in Sher- 
man's march through Northern Alabama. The materials of which the dress 
alluded to is made are cotton and wool, and woven on the hand-loom, 
so commonly seen in the houses at the South. The scrap of a dress, enclosed 
in the letter as a sample, was of a gray color, with a stripe of crimson and 
green, quite pretty, and creditable to the lady who made it." 

Since the close of the war, Miss Sinclair has been busy Avith the pen, 
and has contributed to most of the leading journals of the South and 
many in the North and West. For over two years she has been a 
regular contributor to the " Boston Pilot," from which widely circu- 
lated journal many of her poems have been copied into English and 
Irish papers. 

The kind welcome extended to Miss Sinclair's first volume of poems 
served not only to lay the foundation of a literary life, but it has been- 
the stepping-stone to the success that has crowned her later efforts, for 
had the harsh sentence of the critic fallen upon her earlier produc- 
tions, a naturally timid and sensitive nature would have shrunk from 
the ordeal of again facing the public. 

A second volume from Miss Sinclair will shortly appear, entitled, 
" Heart Whispers ; or, Echoes of Song." A journal, noticing the ad- 
vent of this volume, thus alludes to the poems and the poet : 

" Miss Sinclair's poems abound with vigor, pathos, and the current of gen- 
uine poetic sentiment, united with almost faultless versification, breathing 



198 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

the ardor of true affection, and those deep-thrilling touches of patriotic sen- 
timent that make the tendrils of the warm Southern heart to cling with re- 
doubled fondness around the once happy and prosperous sunny South. What, 
for instance, could be more touching than the following little incident, which 
gained her so many commendations and so much silent admiration. Strew- 
ing flowers over the graves of the Confederate dead in the cemetery near 
Augusta, she came upon one with a head-board bearing the simple inscrip- 
tion, 'Unknown.' Then and there she wrote the beautiful poem ('Un- 
known'). This she framed, wreathed with a chaplet of flowers, and placed 
on the grave of the unknown defender of the Southern cross." 



" UNKNOWN." 

Written upon visiting the Graves of the Confederate Dead, in the Cemetery, Augusta, Ga. 

I stood beside a little -mound, 

Marked by an humble -stone, 
And read the soldier's epitaph, 

In the one word — " Unknown ! " 
Not e'en a name to tell of him 

Who slept so sweetly there — ■ 
No name o'er which loved one could bend 

To drop affection's tear. 

The only one who sleeps " unknown " 

Among the many brave ; 
"Somebody's darling," though, I know, 

Sleeps in that soldier-grave ! 
Perchance to some poor mother's heart 

He was the only joy ! 
Perhaps that mother waited long 

To welcome home her boy ! 

Perhaps a gentle sister, too, 

Prayed for him night and day, 
And watched with anxious heart to greet 

The loved one from the fray ; 
Or it may be, some maid, whose love 

To him was yet more dear, 
Is weeping now with grief for him 

Who sleeps so sweetly here! 



Upon each little white slab here 
Is traced some soldier's name, 



CAEKIE BELL SINCLAIK. 199 

And proudly do we love to tell 

Their glorious deeds to Fame ! 
But ah! 'tis sad indeed to stand 

Beside this humble stone, 
And read no name — and know that one 

Is sleeping all "unknown I" 

To know that there are loving hearts 

Who 'd give their all to-day 
To stand beside this grave, where sleeps 

Their soldier-boy in gray! 
But 'tis enough to know that he 

For our dear country died; 
And stranger hands can twine fair flowers 

Above this spot in pride. 

Ah! here are many soldier-graves — 

He does not sleep alone ! 
And though no name of him is traced 

Upon this simple stone, 
There is a spotless scroll above ! 

And on that snowy page 
Hath angel-hands for the "unknown" 

Eecorded name and age! 
Augusta, Ga., Feb. 2, 1867. 

Miss Sinclair has wooed the Muses amid many of the toils and per- 
plexing cares of every-day life, and often the harp has been tuned to 
song when the soul echoed only to notes of sorrow. With the stern 
duties of life around us, and all its bitter trials to meet, not even the 
poet's heart can always be tuned to sweet melody; but the "Psalm of 
Life " must be sung in sad as well as sweet numbers. But God has 
willed that the child of genius should be the child of sorrow too ; for 
suffering and song go linked hand in hand as twin sisters. 

Miss Sinclair is now residing in Philadelphia, (1871.) 

1869. 



MES. BETTIE M. ZIMMERMAN. 

THE " Southern Illustrated News," published at the capital of the 
" Confederate States," was an excellent "war literary journal," 
though not much of the " illustrated ! " In this paper many excellent 
articles appeared from writers hitherto unknown to the public, and 
many writers made their debut therein. As some one has remarked, 
" many ladies turned to writing as a refuge from anxiety." Several 
of the writers of the " News," whose first effusions appeared in its col- 
umns, are now " high " on the steps of " fame's ladder," and are not 
only welcome, but well-paid contributors to Northern literary journals. 

It was in 1863 that the "News" contained creditable poems by 

" Mrs. B. M. Z " and the following year, the "Southern Field and 

Fireside" (Augusta) published some poems from the same pen. 

Mrs. Zimmerman is by birth a North-Carolinian, and daughter of 
the late Rev. Thomas Meredith, an eminent divine of the Baptist de- 
nomination. Some years since she was married to R. P. Zimmerman, 
of Georgia, since which time she has resided in that State. For sev- 
eral years she made the beautiful city of Augusta her home, but the 
shadow of death there fell upon her life, clouding its brightness ; for in its 
lovely, peaceful " city of the dead " sleeps her boy, to whom she alludes 
in the beautiful poems, "Three Years in Heaven" and " Christmas Tears." 

During and since the close of the war she has lived in Atlanta — 
" that monument of a conqueror's wrath," which is now, phoenix-like, 
rising from the ashes of desolation in renewed youth and beauty. 

Mrs. Zimmerman possesses a taste and talent for literature, and 
writing, with her, has been a pleasing pastime merely, she only lacking 
the study and application to make a name in the "book of Southern 
literature." 



1869. 



CHRISTMAS TEARS. 

But one little stocking hangs to-night 

Upon my chimney wall, 
Swinging its little, nerveless foot, 

Where the fitful shadows fall. 



200 



BETTIE M. ZIMMERMAN. 201 

But one to-night! Seven years gone by, 

Another hung in the light — 
Another heart throbbed by my side 

On each happy Christinas-night. 

But one little sock for Santa Claus 

To fill with his bright gifts rare — 
One pair of hands at early dawn 

Now searching for treasure there! 

The mated socks lie folded away, 

And the darling feet are cold; 
The little hands, like lily-leaves, 

Lie hid in the grave-yard old. 

The radiant eyes, and warm, red lips, 

To dust have mouldered away: 
The glad, young heart will greet no more 

The light of a Christmas-day. 

Then, is it strange that my heart will turn, 

With its weight of unwept tears, 
And yearn with a ceaseless longing 

For the light of by-gone years? 

That a shadow comes with the dawning 

Of each happy Christmas-time, 
Marring the perfect melody 

Of this age-resounding chime? 

Alas ! my heart must ever be sad, 

And the blinding tear-drops fall, 
When I miss the little stocking 

Once hung on the Christmas-wall. 



20 



MRS. SALLIE M. MARTIN. 

SALLIE M. MARTIN is a native of South Carolina, the first and 
only child of Elnathan L. and Jane Wallace Davis. Her father 
died when she was an infant, leaving her to the care of his early be- 
reaved and youthful widow. To the careful and loving training of 
her mother is due whatever she may accomplish in the future, whether 
of literary fame, or the successful practising of domestic virtues. 

After the death of Mr. Davis, his widow and daughter resided with 
her grandfather, Rev. William Holmes, a gentleman of means and 
influence, not only in Fairfield District, his home, but throughout 
many portions of the State. 

" Sallie " was instructed nearly entirely by her mother at home, for 
it was only .at intervals and for short periods at a time that she was 
sent to school. When she was ten years of age, her grandfather be- 
came unfortunate in business, so as to cause an almost entire loss of 
property, and removed to Georgia, accompanied by Mrs. Davis and 
her daughter. Having resided in Georgia the larger part of her life, 
she is as much devoted to her adopted as to her native State. 

In 1860, she was affianced to Mr. George W. Martin, a gentleman 
of talent, connected with the press of Atlanta, and then, for the first 
time, turned her attention to literature ; at his solicitation, publish- 
ing short articles in 1861. In 1863, she was married — a youthful 
bride — for she is very young, and has, we hope, a long and brilliant 
future before her. 

She contributed to various journals of the " Confederacy," over the 
signature of " Sibyl." Her most ambitious effort was a novelette, 
entitled, " Lalla De Vere," written in 1864. 

Mr. Martin, having been in the Confederate service for three years, 
was in Selma with the " Chattanooga Rebel," — a daily journal of 
considerable reputation and ability, — designing to bring out the nove- 
lette of "Lalla De Vere" in book-form. His paper, binding, etc., 
and his person, were captured, and for many weeks his wife was 
ignorant of his fate. "Lalla De Vere" was published in the "Ladies' 
Home Gazette," a journal published in Atlanta, (1867.) 

As a writer, Mrs. Martin's style is chaste and elegant, never flippant. 
Her essays are superior to her narratives. 
202 



SALLIE M. MARTIN. 203 

A series of articles, entitled, "The Women of France," composed 
of sketches of " Madame Roland and the Empress Josephine," 
" Joan d'Arc and Charlotte Corday," "Heloise and Marie Antoinette," 
that appeared in " Scott's Magazine," are, we think, the best articles 
that have appeared from the pen of " Sibyl." 



CHARLOTTE COED AY. 

In Charlotte Corday we find none of the religious enthusiasm which sup- 
ported Joan dArc. If she believed in God at all, it was a sentiment wholly 
separated in her mind from any connection with her earthly mission. She 
did not feel herself called by any superior power to lay down her life for her 
country. The mighty power to do so lay in her own individual strength. 
Think what stern resolve must have gathered day by day in her mind, 
as she sat with her father in the assembly of the exiled deputies, where, 
without one thought that her striking beauty was calling forth admira- 
tion, she was slowly but surely nerving her heart and hand to strike the 
blow which should rid France of a tyrannical monster ! 

So little did she value her life in comparison to the welfare of her country 
that, after she had sheathed her blade in the cruel and wicked heart of the 
hideous Marat, rather than lose the opportunity of witnessing with her own 
eyes the effect this deed would have upon the people for whose good it was 
executed, she made no attempt whatever to escape, though she might readily 
have done so. It was a grand, a noble sight, to see a beautiful woman of 
twenty-five selling her own life that she might take that of an old and loath- 
some wretch whose race was wellnigh run. There was no fire, no impulse 
in the cool, deliberate act for which she had calmly made every preparation, 
as well as for the consequences. There was no battle-cry of " On to victory 
and glory," to lead her on ; but only the " still small voice " within her 
own heart, of " Liberty to France ! " Ah ! little did she dream that her apt 
reply to the president of the tribunal before which she was tried, would be 
handed down from one generation to another ! He asked how it was that 
her first blow reached the heart of Marat — if she had been practising before- 
hand. " Indignation," she calmly said, " had roused my heart, and it showed me 
the way to his." It was so quietly, so simply expressed, yet spoke such vol- 
umes. So absorbed was she in her own patriotic devotion to the cause of 
liberty, that she was not even aware of the deep and glowing passion which 
her beauty and valor awakened in the breast of the unfortunate Adam Lux, 
who deemed no life so sweet as the death which his beloved had suffered, and 
so prayed that he might but perish as she did, which happiness to him was 
granted. 



204 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

The scaffold, the cord, the block, had no terror for the heroic Charlotte. 
Only her womanly delicacy suffered at the exposure of her person to the vul- 
gar gaze of the crowd. Even when her beautiful head, with its wealth of 
matchless hair, was severed from the body, the still soul-lit eyes opened and 
cast a look of indignation upon the ruthless executioner who dared to buffet 
her now lifeless cheek. Well did she win the name of heroine. Justly is 
she entitled to rank among the illustrious women of her country. 



>^c 



CLAKA LE CLERC. 

THIS young lady is favorably known in a limited circle as a 
" charming writer of prose." She is an Alabamian by birth, al- 
though the early years of her childhood were passed in Mississippi. 
Several months after her ninth birthday, her parents moved to the 
" Empire State," (Georgia,) and in one of the many pleasant little 
towns of the noble old State has she ever since resided. 

Entering school at the age of eleven, she remained a close student 
until she graduated, a few days before her eighteenth birthday. During 
her scholastic life, every spare moment was devoted to her pen, and 
oftentimes her vacations were passed in scribbling. 

Her first story was entitled, " Popie Weston." Very few of her 
writings have ever found their way into print. When she was fifteen 
years of age, Dabney Jones, the great temperance lecturer, begged a 
short story, which appeared in " The Temperance Crusader," then 
edited by Mrs. Mary E. Bryan. 

In 1865, she wrote a series of " Reveries " for the " Southern Lite- 
rary Companion," under the signature of " Harry Holt ; " also replies, 
"Old Maid Reveries," by "Polly Holt." Since that time she has con- 
tributed to "Scott's Magazine," "Miss Barber's Weekly," "Child's 
Delight," and "Burke's Weekly for Boys and Girls." Some of her 
friends affirm that she possesses the faculty- of pleasing children to a 
greater extent than almost any one of the present day. 

Miss Le Clerc has been, as assistant teacher, sheltered beneath the 
wing of her alma mater since her graduation, which alma mater 
is " College Temple," at Newnan, Georgia. 

18G9. 



MKS. BESSIE W. WILLIAMS. 

AMONG the Southern writers, there are many who never published 
a line until the disastrous state of affairs consequent upon the 
close of ^the war found them compelled to earn a living ; and the pen, 
a delight in happier and prosperous days, was chosen by many as a 
means of livelihood. Articles written for the pleasure and amusement 
of a limited circle now saw light, that otherwise would never have 
been printed. 

Mrs. Bessie W. Williams (" Constance ") has not published a great 
deal, but in what she has published, in " Scott's Magazine " and " The 
Mobile Sunday Times," we think we see germs of great promise for 
future excellence. She may be now a " half-fledged birdling, but her 
wings will soon be sufficiently grown, and she will fly high." 

Her real, breathing, moving life has been so full of stirring events, 
so made up of deepest sorrows and sweetest joys, that not until recent- 
ly has she felt she could quietly sit down and write her thoughts. 

Mrs. Williams is a native of the town of Beaufort, State of South 
Carolina. She is the daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson, of 
" Hampton's Legion," who nobly yielded up his life on the field of 
the " First Manassas." The three names, Bee, Bartow, Johnson, were 
among the first which became immortal in the Confederate struggle 
for independence. Her husband was Henry S. Williams, of Marietta, 
Georgia, where she now resides. At the youthful age of twenty-one, 
Mrs. Williams was a widow. If it were possible for her to devote her 
time to reading and studying, we think, candidly, that as a writer she 
would take a high place among the literati of our country. 

The following extract is from the concluding chapter of " Ciaromski 
and his Daughter," published in the " Mobile Sunday Times." 
1809. 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 



Oh ! what words can describe, what language can depict the horrors of a 
battle-field? Fearful it is when the booming of the cannon, the clash of 

205 



206 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

arms, the shouts of commanders, the cheering of the men, and the wild 
neighing of steeds, in a horrible medley, rend the skies ; but when these 
sounds have passed away, when the bloody work is finished, and we are left 
alone with the dying and the dead — then the human tongue fails, and lan- 
guage is powerless to portray. 

On such a. scene as this the setting sun now casts his last, lingering rays. 
The snow-covered plain, which in its spotless purity his early beams had 
gilded, now lies crimson and reeking with the blood of the slain. The battle 
is over — the cries of victory have died away in murmuring echoes among 
the hills ; and here, resting from their toils, lie the weary laborers in this 
bloody field. 

All gory and mangled they lie. Some, whose hearts are beating still, 
though the tide of life is fast ebbing away ; and others with the moisture of 
death upon their brows, his stiffening hand upon their limbs. 

Oh, fond mother ! here you will find your darling, the pride of your heart, 
him whom you have borne in your arms and pressed to your bosom. Come, 
look upon him now ! Is this cold, lifeless form, with matted locks and dis- 
torted features, your gallant, fair-haired boy ? 

Loving wife! here too is your husband, the father of your children, the 
strong arm upon which you leaned, the true heart where you ever found love 
and sympathy ; the lips are cold now — they return not your kiss. 

Devoted daughter ! come, seek thy father, for he too lies here ! - See, the 
gray locks are stained with blood, and the eyes are dim and sightless. Place 
thy hand upon his heart — it beats no more ! Then he is dead, and from thy 
life hath passed away one of its greatest blessings. Long, long wilt thou 
mourn the loss of his protecting love — that love which was born in thy birth, 
and grew with thy growth, unselfish, untiring. 

Yes ; husbands, sons, fathers, lovers, brothers — all lie upon the red plain, 
weltering in their blood. My heart grows sick within me as I gaze upon 
the scene of carnage. O sun! withdraw thy lingering rays ; and do thou, 
O night ! envelop with thy sable mantle and shut out from my sight the 
horrid spectacle ! 



LOUISE MANHIEM. 

(Mrs. Herbert.) 

MISS MANHIEM was born in Augusta, Georgia, in 1830. Her 
mother, whose maiden name was De Pass, was born in France, 
and emigrated to America when a child. She was a woman of fine 
endowments, and possessed great strength of character, which she con- 
stantly displayed in the judicious training of a large family of chil- 
dren amid the severest struggles of poverty. All of her children are 
men and women of eminent virtues and genius. Her five daughters are 
known in their social home-circle as writers : the two elder employ the 
pen merely as a means of pleasing recreation ; the three younger have 
made it a means of pecuniary benefit. Their two brothers, the Hon. 
Judge S. and Elcan Heydenfeldt, are men whose eminence is too well 
known to the world to require notice from us otherwise than as the 
talented brothers of five gifted sisters. 

The father of the three younger daughters (their mother having mar- 
ried the second time) was of Scotch and Irish descent ; and though far 
more proud of his American birth, he often asserted with chivalric pride 
that the " blood of the Bruces " flowed in his veins. He was a man 
of quick, nervous temperament, and, though not having leisure to enter 
into "authorship," genius often rose superior, and the "poet " triumphed 
over the laborer. He died in his forty-fifth year. His talents were trans- 
mitted to his eldest child, Louise Manhiem, the subject of this sketch. 

Miss Manhiem became Mrs. Herbert in 1853, but her husband 
dying immediately after his marriage, (three days,) she sought conso- 
lation in her studies. A few years after, she accompanied her brother 
to Europe, where he wished to educate his children, and where she 
remained for two years, visiting the principal cities of the Old World. 

Mrs. Herbert is now in California, and urges in her pleasant, forcible 
letters emigration to that " grand and splendid country." Although 
separated by oceans, we hope and expect many pungent and pleasing 
articles will cross the Atlantic to brighten and gladden our firesides. 

207 



208 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Mrs. Herbert possesses a lively, genial disposition, is a fluent talker, 
and fond of cheerful company, preferring the more congenial mind of 
learned men to the more versatile and light companionship of her own 
sex. Under all circumstances, she is an agreeable companion. 

In person, she is of medium height, well formed, and peculiarly 
graceful. She has a little spice of temper, (as, by-the-by, all the sisters 
have, but one ;) but she possesses a noble nature and kind heart, which 
we hope will beat long enough to add much to the general happiness 
and the wisdom of mankind. 

Mrs. Herbert has never published a volume, her contributions being 
to the magazines and literary journals of the day. She is a splendid 
French scholar, translating that language with ease and fine diction. 

1S69. E. J. 



OX DEESS. 



Finished at last — sealed, directed, post-stamped! Very well — tie on 
your bonnet — fling on your shawl. Oh, never mind ! don't stop to coax on 
those tedious gloves, pray ! You have a long way to go, and you can put 
them on as you walk along. You are not the Countess of Blessington, you 
know ; and now you have no tedious brothers to preach and tyrannize. 

It is true that the race of slovenly blue-stockings is fast dying out, and I, 
for one, certainly do admire to see a woman who " goes in thoroughly for 
dress." Not, indeed, the order of painted popinjays or peacock tribe, who, 
bedecked in all the ornament for which she can find space, and brilliant in 
every coloring of the rainbow, spends her time in strutting from one mirror 
to another, admiring the effect of its charming tout ensemble — keeping the 
white hands constantly busy brushing off specks, arranging a stray ringlet 
or rebellious lock, (sometimes too with the pomatum which happens to be 
most handy, and not particularly odorous or perfumed should the digestion 
be impaired or the dentist's rooms unfrequented,) pulling out a puffing, a 
crumpled frill, a tumbled flounce, a creased ribbon, a crushed collarette or 
undersleeve; re-fastening a brooch, re-adjusting a bracelet, or re-arranging 
belt or buckle :— one of those " gentle creatures," who, upon an accident in 
the crowded street, where her trailing skirts are out of place and out of taste, 
deserving any amount of ill luck — if not ill treatment — from some awkward 
boot or spur, cannot forbear an expression of peevish regret, or a flash of 
malignant anger from beneath the " fringed lashes " at the miserable, luck- 
less offender. No ! not one of these worshippers at the feet of fashion, but 
one of those majestic and queenly or graceful and delicate creatures whom 
you involuntarily turn to look upon again — those who, once robed with 
due regard to delicacy of texture, to harmonious blendings of color, and an 



LOUISE MANHIEM. 209 

exquisite adaptation of form and propriety of contrast — above all, the suit- 
ableness of the color and costume to the peculiar style of personal adorn- 
ment — never think again of their dress except as a common accessory to 
their general appearance, which, being persons of intelligence and refine- 
ment generally, they are too highly bred to allow a spectator to perceive 
occupies them unduly. Supposed to be wealthy, they are all the more assi- 
duous, when not so in reality, to suppress all those little demonstrations that 
might give rise to the suspicion of an excess of personal vanity, or the pre- 
sumption that the coarser and more material features of existence occupy 
the greater part of their time or concern. And nothing is more grateful to 
the feelings, nor more delightful to the eye, even to a woman — and how 
much more must it be to a man ! than to witness, upon many of those little, 
and sometimes annoying and irremediable misfortunes to the toilette of a 
lady that are so frequent upon the street or in the crowded "party-room" — 
what is more admirable and soothing than to notice the gracious bend, the 
charming deprecatory shake of the gracefully set head, protesting against 
your self-reproach and excuses — the brilliant bit of jest, if proximity permit, 
in the sweet and gentle smile that assures you, better than words, that " it is 
not of the least consequence, and can be easily remedied ! " I can fancy such 
a woman exciting a tender reverence, and being the one any man would feel 
" delighted to honor " — or a woman either. 

Yes ; I am much inclined to say, with the vast majority, such important 
and ferocious personages as Dr. Johnson, Dean Swift, Christina of Sweden, 
and Lady Mary Worthy, notwithstanding — "Vive la mode!" but I might 
add, with double enthusiasm, " Vive le bon gout ! " The world would, indeed, 
be an ugly place, if all the women wore tumbled or limp skirts, soiled collars 
pinned awry, shoes unlaced, and fingers stained with ink; for, in this age of 
educational advancement, two-thirds at least of our charming, clever women 
may very justly lay claim to " blue-stockingism," or the more attractive 
title of litterateur. Or it would be a very monotonous world if every face, 
oval, or round, or long — if all brows, high or low, prominent or receding, 
square or round, massive or delicate — were adorned with hair worn in long, 
rich ringlets, like Madame Roland, or short, charming frieze, like pretty Nell 
Gwynn, or a VImperatrice or a la Grec — very carelessly done too ; the end 
trailing behind, no matter whether the neck upon which it rests be wrinkled 
and yellow and freckled, or whether it be a la Eugenie or & Marie Antoinette, 
the loveliest necks ever possessed by mortal woman, except, perhaps, poor 
Anne Boleyn — the two last food for the axe! Alas! what may yet be the 
fate of the third? 

There is one singular fact, however, with regard to careless women, which, 
being paradoxical, will have its objectors, I know, but which long ex- 
perience and close observation has taught me is correct beyond a doubt, or 
with few exceptions. It is this : that many of those women who are the 
most seemingly indifferent to personal appearance, are the very ones whom 
27 



210 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

attention to the rules and taste in the arrangement of costume would 
vastly improve, and who, after all, are the most inordinately vain of all 
women ! 

I have said above, the order of slovenly " blue stockings " had become 
almost extinct. There is, however, a remnant of the school who act upon 
a new principle. I suppose it used to be that carelessness saved time, and dirt, 
trouble. Ablution has certainly become a universal and imperative necessity 
of the age. But carelessness is now viewed from a new stand-point by the 
disciples of the reformed school. They have taken their cue from such poetical 
licenses as " Beauty unadorned is adorned the most ! " " Sweet simplicity ! " 
" Charming negligence ! " " Delightful indifference to personal appearance ! " 
" Entrancing abandon I " and the like hackneyed hyperboles. 

And the phrases are well enough after all, time, place, and circumstances 
corresponding or considered. The careless simplicity — even the extreme 
approach to negligence and abandon, or recklessness, and rebellion against 
all accepted rules of propriety in costume, pose, and style that certainly 
became the " fairest Adelaide " — gave a bewitching air of espieglerie to that 
loveliest hoyden, Laura — or that enhanced the divine grace of the proud, 
silent, beautiful Myra — heightened the dazzling attractions of the brilliant 
and haughty Semiramis, or the daring, passionate, bewilderingly entrancing 
Cleopatra, are all well enough. These trespassers may carry it off grandly 
triumphant in the very face of rules of art or propriety, but woe to the miser- 
able, mistaken mediocrity, personal or mental, that ventures to follow where 
these daring, self-confident guerillas and pioneers undertake to lead ! 

It is a pity their imitators could not " see themselves," etc., etc. And 
yet, there are moments when verily, in spite of their intense silliness, I could 
not help but pity their discomfiture and crushing disappointment. 

I once knew a beauty who used to take half an hour extra at her toilette 
to arrange a curl upon her forehead so as to give it the appearance of accident. 
Chance did first reveal to her keen, artistic perceptions that it enhanced her 
charms. Her lover admired it, too ; and she availed herself of the hint. 
She was much complimented upon the " sweet " pet straggler, and it received 
all sorts of caresses and encouragements from every slender hand that dared 
the familiar approach to that queenly brow ; and when, with an enchanting 
little moue of impatience, and a still more enchanting blush and smile, ac- 
companying an espiegle glance at me, who was in the secret, she would at- 
tempt to push back the intruding lock, she was immediately besieged with 
intercessions to permit the pretty trespasser to remain. 

It came about, then, that shortly after that, when spending some weeks 
at a gay country-place, I chanced to be cognizant — unwillingly — of an 
attempt to imitate this illustrious " renegade curl," on the part of one of 
these indijf events — these lovers of " interesting simplicity, " who " did n't care 
the least in the world how they looked! " and whose broad, majestic brow and 
quiet face, that was almost plain in its grave repose, and which did look far 



REBECCA JACOBUS. 211 

more interesting, and decidedly more soft and feminine, crowned by her 
smooth, glossy wealth of braids, than in artificially tumbled locks. 

It followed naturally enough, then, that the poor thing was most despe- 
rately, but unconsciously teased by her artless companions' constant attempts 
to force the deserter back to his proper quarters, and fasten it all the more 
securely for fear of new attempts at insubordination, for " Hermine looks 
hideous with that strand always in her eyes. How on earth came your hair so 
uneven, Hermine? " " To make that set for your sister Claudia? " " But you 
should have taken it from the back hair, dear ! " They were also lavish in 
their condolences concerning the " stiff" quality of the little " twist," or, as 
the more irreverent termed it, " pig-tail," and positive in their assurances 
that it would become pliable as soon as it " grew out " again. I pitied the 
poor girl's flushes of impatience and pallors of suppressed anger, annoyance, 
and disappointment, though sometimes the by-play was comic enough. But 
the innocent gravity of my face then and there was a chef-d'oeuvre of self- 
restraint — a fitting and commendable holocaust to — charity ! 

OOj^OO — 



MES. KEBECCA JACOBUS 

WAS born at Cambridge, S. G, February 22, 1832. She is younger 
sister of Louise Manhiem. During her infancy, her parents re- 
moved to Augusta, Ga., where they remained until she reached her 
eleventh year, when her father, dissatisfied with his vocation, and 
craving that sphere of life which his poetic imagination pictured in 
the wilds of Florida, emigrated to that lovely land. The versatile 
beauty, sombre gloom, and grandeur of its scenery, awoke the talent 
of his second daughter, and threw into her after-life an impassioned 
love of solitude and nature. 

Mrs. Jacobus was educated by her eldest brother, Judge Heyden- 
feldt, and graduated at the principal seminary in Montgomery, Ala., 
with credit. 

She married, in 1852, J. Julien Jacobus, a good and talented man, 
who, contrary to the general rule, was proud of his young wife's lite- 
rary ability, and who now and then took pleasure in inditing poems 
complimentary to her genius. The reverent affection with which he 
regarded her to the end of his short life is the noblest panegyric we 
can offer her in the character of wife and mother — the hearth of home 
being the truest means by which to test the higher attributes of a good 
and gifted woman. In her home circle, her virtues shine pre-eminent, 



212 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

and sanctify the genius which they adorn. Death, however, soon 
entered this happy home, and gathered two lovely children to his 
breast, casting a deep gloom over the young mother's life, which a few 
years later was deepened by the death of her husband, who fell while 
defending his home and his country on the bloody plain of Shiloh. 
Death claimed few nobler victims than this young and talented man, 
who had already given bright promise of future pre-eminence in his 
profession as a member of the Georgia bar. 

The deep devotion which Mrs. Jacobus pays to the education of her 
three promising children elicits our especial admiration. She is a 
woman of medium height, is slight and well formed, has regular fea- 
tures ; she is habitually pale, and her face wears a thoughtful expres- 
sion when in repose ; her manner is quiet and retiring, and there is an 
atmosphere of marked refinement pervading her every movement. 

Mrs. Jacobus is a Jewess by birth, (as are all the five sisters,) and, 
with that native pride so inherent in the Hebrew people, she brings 
up her children in accordance with the Jewish faith. (Her father 
was a Presbyterian.) 

Mrs. Jacobus is still young, and though her life has been early 
clouded with sorrow, we hope she will yet emerge from her voluntary 
seclusion, and we confidently expect much that is good, true, and 
beautiful from her pen. 

Her home is in Augusta, and she promises a book to the world at a 
not distant day. 

1869. 



MRS. MARY A. McCRIMMON. 

MRS. McCRIMMON has done much for Southern letters ; has been 
editress of several literary journals ; in 1859, edited the " Chil- 
dren's Department," in the "Georgia Temperance Crusader," and dur- 
ing the war, edited an "Educational Monthly" at Lumpkin, Georgia, 
her then residence. She was also among the prominent contributors 
to the "Southern Illustrated News," her sketches and poems being 
much admired by the readers of that journal, which had an extensive 
circulation in camp as well as at the firesides of the readers of the 
" Southern Confederacy." 

Since the close of the war, Mrs. McCrimmon, we are informed, has 
married a Mr. Dawson, and removed to Arkansas. 



MARY A. McCKIMMON. 213 

As one of the constant " workers in the mine of literature," we 
could not well omit the name of this lady, although obliged to furnish 
such an incomplete notice as this. 



FLOEIDA. 



Land of beauty — blooming ever 

In the golden summer sun ; 
Land of perfume — blighted never 

By the borean blast; where one 
Unfading, dreamy spring-time still 
Lies like a veil on plain and hill. 

Soft the shadows slowly creeping 

Through thy dim and spectral pines ; 

Pure thy lakelets, calmly sleeping, 
Save a few light, rippling lines, 

"When the white water-lilies move, 

And fairies chant their early love. 

Far in ether, stars above thee 

Ever beam with purest light ; 
Birds of richest music love thee; 

Flowers than Eden's hues more bright ; 
And love — young love, so fresh and fair, 
Fills with his breath thy gentle air. 

Oh, land of beauty — clime of flowers — 

Scenes of precious memory! 
Thine are the happy "by-gone hours" 

Which made all of life to me; 
When every moment was, in joy, an age — 
A volume concentrated in a page. 

But, land of beauty, blooming ever 

'Neath the fairest summer-sky, 
I may see thee more — ah! never — 

Never hear thy soft wind's sigh; 
Yet in my heart thou evermore must dwell; 
Then land — dear land of beauty, fare thee well ! 
1S60. 



MRS. AGNES JEAN STIBBES, 

RUTH FAIRFAX, a favorite contributor of novelettes, poems, 
and sketches to Father Ryan's paper, the " Banner of the South," 
published in Augusta, is known by a few friends to be Mrs. Stibbes, 
at the present time residing in Savannah. Mrs. Stibbes was born in 
South Carolina. She commenced writing for publication when about 
sixteen years of age, and was ' married at seventeen years to a gentle- 
man of Georgia. 

Until the late war, her life was one bright scene ; but, in common 
with her Southern sisters, all of her property was swept away, her 
home desolated, and wanting the "necessaries of life," she wrote the 
first chapters of the " Earls of Sutherland " (afterward published in 
the " Banner of the South ") to pass away in pleasant thoughts the 
hours that were otherwise so frightfully real. During the war, she 
contributed novelettes and sketches to the " Field and Fireside," 
under the nom de plume of " Emma Carra." 



REV. A. J. RYAN, 

THE GOLDEN-TONGUED ORATOR. 



I have seen him, the poet, priest, and scholar ! I have seen him — yea, 
and not only sat with hundreds of others listening to the holy words of love 
that fell from his lips, not only made one of many to whom his words were 
addressed, but I have listened to words of kindness and admonition, addressed 
to me alone; and this is not all. I have clasped his hand, gazed into the 
unfathomable depths of those clear blue eyes, seeing there a blending of the 
tenderest pity and almost superhuman love with the shadow of a deep 
sorrow. 

The majesty of his holy office loses nought of its mysterious grandeur 
when explained by his lips. As he cries, " Ours is the royal priesthood ! " 
behold that radiant smile ! It illumines his pale face as does a sunbeam the 
pure and graceful lily, and the glorious thoughts, fresh from his soul, breathe 
sweet incense to our hearts ! Would that mine were the privilege of daily 
214 



AGNES JEAN S T I B B E S. 215 

kneeling at his feet, and, while his hand rests on my bowed head, have 
him invoke God's blessing upon me. 

I listened lingeringly to the last words that fell from his lips, treasuring 
them up in my heart, and then turned away, grieving that I could see him, 
hear him no longer ; and yet I bore away with me, fresh from his lips, a fer- 
vent " God bless you ! " that has hovered round me like a halo of glory, 
brightening my pathway through the weary world. 

The earth has seemed greener, the sky bluer, the sun brighter since my 
interview with him ; and still, in imagination, I can see his delicate pale face, 
the beautiful brown, waving hair, and glowing, soul-lit eyes — eyes that look 
down into one's heart, seeking the real feelings of the soul — eyes that tell 
of holy thought, of tender love for all mankind — eyes that speak of a strong 
soul struggling with the frail tenement of clay, beating her wings, longing 
to be free ! 

I can even now see him before me, as he stood then, his hands clasped, 
his head thrown back, and a smile of rare beauty brightening his pure face 
as he exclaimed, with a ring of holy exultation in his voice; "And upon 
this rock will I build my Church, and the gates of hell shall never prevail 
against it." 

This is no fancy-sketch, but a bright reality, and yet I have not done jus- 
tice to him of whom I speak. 




MISS FANNY ANDREWS. 

{Elzey Hay.) 

rpHIS record of " Southern Writers" would be incomplete without 
_L mention of a young lady, the daughter of an able legal gentleman 
of Washington, Georgia, and herself born and educated in the State, 
who has, since the close of the war, been a frequent contributor to the 
periodical literature of the country, under the pseudonym of "Elzey 
Hay." 

Until recently, " Elzey Hay " was " Elzey Hay " merely. 

Miss Andrews believes that " the great beauty of anonymous writ- 
ing is to protect one against bores and the other annoyances of a small 
reputation, till one can claim the advantages of a great one." 

Her identity was published to the world without her knowledge, 
and she feels diffident in appearing among " Southern Writers " with 
that mask which separated her from the public thrown aside. 

As she expresses the matter in a recent article, we prefer to use her 
words : 

" Under all circumstances, it is wisest to feel one's ground first, before ad- 
vancing boldly upon it, and for a timid or reserved person there is nothing 
like a pseudonym, which throws a veil over one's identity, and stands like a 
tower of defence to shield one's private life from the invasions of public 
curiosity. If by the public were meant merely that vague assembly of in- 
dividuals which makes up the world at large, one would care very little 
about it, save in so far as one's interest was concerned in pleasing its taste ; 
but each one of us has a little world of his own, bounded by the circle of 
his personal acquaintance, and it is the criticism of this public that literary 
novices dread. Within this circle there is always some one individual who, 
to young female writers in particular, is the embodiment of public opinion. 
One could not write a line without wondering what this person would think of 
it, if the blessed anonymous did not come to one's aid. Safe behind this shield 
the most timid writer may express himself with boldness and independence." 

From my first acquaintance with the articles of " Elzey Hay," I 
felt the identity of such a sparkling, piquant writer could not long re- 
main concealed. 
216 



FANNY ANDREWS. 217 

Sometimes I am almost tempted to call her the " Southern Fanny 
Fern," but "Elzey" is a woman, and "Fanny" a bloomer, perhaps! 
Both excel in a peculiar style — so bright, witty, caustic; but the 
wit of " Elzey Hay " is as keen as a Damascus blade and as pol- 
ished. Fanny Fern's wit reminds one of a dull, spiteful, little pen- 
knife. The former " holds the mirror up to nature ; " the latter cari- 
catures it. The one laughs merrily and good-naturedly at the faults 
and follies of mankind; the other sneers at them. "Elzey Hay" ib 
a great favorite with her own sex ; Fanny Fern is not. In one, we 
recognize the champion of the sex, in the other a " Woman's Rights 
lecturer." But both are a terror to the " lords of creation." They 
deal stinging blows to domestic tyrants, would-be exquisites, and pre- 
tence generally; the small weaknesses and foibles of the "lords of cre- 
ation " are not dealt with tenderly. Satire is a powerful weapon in 
cutting off the excrescences of society. Juvenal and Pope and 
Thackeray effected some good in their day. So will "Elzey Hay." 
"Elzey Hay" has been a frequent contributor to Godey's "Lady's 
Book," and " Scott's Magazine," (Atlanta.) " Dress under Difficul- 
ties," a paper concerning the "fashions in Dixie during the war," 
which appeared in Godey's " Lady's Book," for July, 1866, is " Elzey 
Hay's " most widely read article. 

Her first debut as a writer was in the " New York World," shortly 
after the close of the war, in an article entitled "A Romance of 
Robbery," exposing some infamous proceedings of the Bureauites at 
a village in Georgia. She assumed the character of a Federal officer 
in this instance. She has also been correspondent for other New York 
papers under "masculine signatures." We venture to predict that, 
if she lives, Miss Andrews will be widely known, and " sparkling El- 
zey Hay " be as familiar as a household word in the homes of our 
land. 

Her home is in the charming town of Washington, where Miss An- 
drews is one of the attractions, entertaining with her delightful con- 
versations, for she converses as well as she writes. 
28 



218 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



A PLEA FOE EED HAIR. 

BY A RED-HAIRED WOMAN. 

There has always existed an unconquerable, and it seems to me unreason- 
able prejudice against red hair among the nations of Northern Europe and 
America. In vain do physiognomists, phrenologists, physiologists, or any 
other ologists, declare that the pure old Saxon family, distinguished by red 
heads and freckled faces, is highest in the scale of human existence, being 
farthest removed from the woolly heads and black faces of the African or 
lowest race ; the world positively refuses to admire red heads and freckled 
faces, or to regard them as marks of either physical or intellectual superior- 
ity. In vain are nymphs, fairies, angels, and the good little children in 
Sunday-school books, always pictured with sunny tresses ; the world is so 
perverse that it scorns in real life what it pronounces enchanting in books 
and pictures. Now this inconsistency is the main cause of quarrel that we 
red-heads have against the rest of the world. Little does it advantage us 
that our hair is thought bewitching on the angels in picture-books, while it 
is sneered at on our own heads in drawing-rooms. Willingly would we 
resign the ideal glories of sylphs and angels to our dark-haired sisters, if we 
could in return share some of the substantial glories they enjoy in real life. 
The world is too inconsistent: while our crowning feature seems to be 
acknowledged as the highest type of ideal beauty, it is at the same time 
regarded as a trait of positive ugliness in real life. No painter ever made a 
black-haired angel. Men's ideas of celestial beauty seem to be inseparable 
from the sunny ringlets that dance round azure eyes like golden clouds 
floating over the blue canopy of heaven. I challenge any of my readers to 
name a single poet or painter who has ventured to represent angel or glori- 
fied spirit with black hair. Even the pictures and images of our Saviour — 
with reverence I speak it — are generally represented with some shade of 
yellow hair, and surely all that relates to Him must come up to our highest 
ideas of perfect loveliness. If red hair were really such a bad thing, why 
should the inhabitants of heaven be always painted with it ? Who would 
think of representing even the lowest of the angels with a red nose ? And 
yet in real life red heads meet with little more favor than red noses. 

Poets are as friendly to red hair as painters. Milton describes his Adam 
and Eve — 

" The loveliest pair 
That ever since in love's embraces met; 
Adam, the godliest man of men since born 
His sons ; the fairest of her daughters, Eve " — 

both as red-haired. 



FANNY ANDREWS. 219 

" His fair large front, and eyes sublime, declared 
Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks 
Round from his parted forelock manly hung 
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad ; 
She, as a veil, down to the slender waist 
Her unadorned golden tresses wore." 

Milton's admirers will doubtless be shocked at the idea of a red-headed 
Adam and Eve, and consider the accusation a slander on the poet; but sub- 
stitute the epithet auburn, golden, or hyacinthine, and nobody's taste is 
offended. Poets always take care to observe this nice distinction, and their 
readers are satisfied, few ever stopping to consider that auburn is only a 
polite name for one kind of very red hair. The difference is simply this : 
what is golden or auburn hair on a pretty woman, is blazing red on an ugly 
one ; and people are apt to like or dislike it, according as they see it con- 
nected with pretty faces or plain ones. After gazing at a portrait of the 
beautiful Queen of Scots, one is enraptured with auburn ringlets ; after 
beholding a picture of her ill-favored rival, Elizabeth, one is equally out of 
humor with carroty hair. The force of prejudice in this matter is strikingly 
illustrated in the case of two sisters — the one very pretty, the other very 
plain, who once spent some time in the house where I was boarding. 
Though the hair of both was precisely the same color, that of the younger, 
or handsome one, was always called auburn, the other red. A lady one day 
had the kindness — some people are very fond of making such pleasant little 
remarks — to tell the ugly one that her hair was not near so pretty a color 
as that of her sister. The person addressed made no reply ; but, when the 
polite lady had departed, told me that she was wearing frizettes made of 
her pretty sister's curls, which had been cut off during an attack of fever. 

On first thoughts, it may seem strange that red hair is nowhere held in 
such contempt as among those races of whom it is most characteristic ; but 
this results from the general disposition of mankind to depreciate what they 
have, and overrate what they do not possess. In France, Spain, Italy, all 
the nations of Southern Europe, nothing is so much admired as the most 
fiery red hair — called by a more poetical name, of course ; while a dark- 
browed Mexican, whose stiff, wiry locks bear greater resemblance to the tail 
of a black horse than anything else in nature, will all but fall down and 
worship the beauty of any happy possessor of sunflower tresses. " Coma 
Bella, Coma Blanca," are the pleasing sounds which greet the ear of a red- 
headed woman on landing in Mexico, as she finds herself surrounded by an 
admiring group of natives ; doubly pleasing by contrast to the less flattering 
remarks which she has been accustomed to hear from Americans or English- 
men. Chateaubriand seems to have found it impossible to reconcile his 
ideas of the beautiful and poetical with the presence of sable tresses, for he 
describes the hair of his Indian heroine, Atala, as a golden cloud floating 
before the eyes of her lover ! 



220 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

If poets and painters are the friends of red hair, novelists are its mortal 
foes. It is the business of these latter to make the ideal approach the real, 
and their highest excellence consists in making the one so like the other 
that one can scarcely tell them apart. They take advantage of the prevail- 
ing prejudice against red hair to paint their worst characters with it. Tittle- 
bat Titmouse and Uriah Heep are a perpetual slander upon red-headed 
people, The character usually ascribed to these last, and with much truth, 
is entirely out of keeping with that ascribed by the great romancers to their 
villains. Eed-haired people are generally high-tempered, impulsive, warm- 
hearted; and, though it may not become a red-headed woman to say so, I do 
not think I have ever known one to be either a fool or a coward. Such 
characteristics are entirely at variance with the low, sneaking craftiness of 
Uriah, or the sottish imbecility of Titmouse. It always seemed to me that 
the latter ought to have been drawn with a certain pale, sickly shade of 
sandy hair, which looks as if it might once have been red, but had got faded, 
like a piece of bad calico, from constant using. Uriah, on the other hand, 
should have stiff, straight, puritanical locks, with a dark, sallow complexion, 
and green eyes. There are some people who look as if they had lain in the 
grave until they had become mouldy, and then risen to wander about the 
world without ever getting dry or warm again. Uriah Heep belongs to this 
class, and should have nothing about him so warm and bright as a sunny 
head. 

One reason for the common dislike of red hair may be found in the fact 
that it is often accompanied by a red or freckled face, neither of which is 
exactly consistent with our ideas of the most refined and delicate beauty. 
But is it not unfair to lay the faults of the face and complexion upon the 
hair? Nobody objects to black hair because it sometimes accompanies a 
dark, muddy complexion ; and, upon the whole, I think brunettes oftener 
have bad complexions than blondes. After all, there are as many pretty 
faces framed in gold as in jet. There are three golden threads from the 
head of Lucretia Borgia preserved in the British Museum on account of 
their rare beauty. It is said that Cleopatra had red hair; the beautiful 
Mary of Scotland certainly had it, and the present Empress of France is 
crowned with something which is cousin-german to it ; and this seems to be 
the secret of the present triumph of blondes. Whenever a reigning beauty 
happens to be crowned with the obnoxious color, prejudice dies out for a 
time, and light hair becomes the fashion, as at present. Brunettes are in 
despair, and red-headed women have their revenge. Modes are invented, 
such as frizzing and crimping, which do not at all become raven tresses, but 
render golden locks bewitching. There are started all manner of devices for 
giving dark hair a golden tinge. Gilt and silver powders are used without 
stint, while some devoted worshippers of fashion submit to the ordeal of 
lying with their hair in dye for thirty-six hours, and then run the risk of 
making it blue, green, or purple, as did their worthy prototype, Tittlebat 



FANNY ANDREWS. 221 

Titmouse, in his famous attempt at the reverse and more common opera- 
tion. 

But these wayward freaks of fashion never last long. So soon as the 
belle, whose beauty in spite of red hair cheated people into the belief that 
she was beautiful because of it, becomes passe, or out of fashion, and some 
sable-tressed rival succeeds to her triumphs, the old prejudice revives. The 
pretty names of auburn, golden, sunny are dropped, and red hair falls into 
such disrepute that any charity schoolboy will fly to arms if the odious epi- 
thet is applied to his pate. Men and women are unconscious of the power 
there is in a pretty face ; they are influenced by it involuntarily. Many an 
ugly fashion gains ground just because pretty women will look so pretty in 
spite of it, that others are deluded into the belief that the fashion is itself 
graceful and becoming. Thus it is with red hair; some of the reigning 
belles of Europe having been supplied with it by nature, and making a 
virtue of necessity, have brought it in fashion. Let the rest of us make the 
most of the triumph they have won, and pray that a dark-haired empress 
may not ascend the throne of France till we are too gray to care what our 
hair was in the beginning. The ascendency we enjoy at present cannot 
endure forever, that is certain ; for though the world may submit to the dic- 
tates of fashion for a season, she has a spite against red hair at the bottom, 
and will make war on it to the end of time. When eternity begins, as it 
seems pretty generally conceded that angels have — well, I won't offend the 
reader by saying red hair, but certainly something very like it, if poets and 
painters are to be credited — it is to be hoped that our triumph may then 
prove more lasting. 



PAPEE-COLLAE GENTILITY. 

"Ward's patent reversible, perspiration-proof paper collar,' warranted, by 
the chemicals used in its composition, to equal in polish the finest linen fin- 
ish, and to rival in durability the best," etc., etc. 

What a commentary on the age in which we live ! What a catalogue of 
shams and vulgarities ! " Fine linen finish," a sham upon raw material ; 
" reversible," a slander on personal neatness ; " perspiration-proof," an in- 
sult to friendly soap and water, the only honest means that nature has pro- 
vided for making a man thoroughly " perspiration-proof." The present has 
often been called an age of shams, and who can question the justice of the 
accusation, when we see a " patent, reversible," many-sided sham, boldly 
asserting itself as such, and obtaining public favor through the very hollow- 
ness of its pretensions ? 

Considered merely, in themselves, without reference to their usual accom- 
paniments, paper collars are comparatively small affairs, scarcely worth singling 



222 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

out for special reprehension, from among the greater shams to which the age ia 
addicted, bat they are significant of much beyond themselves. They are the 
outward and visible signs of an inward and by no means splrituelle state of 
things, which is not chic, as the Parisians say. They are suggestive of a 
small shopkeeper, second-rate boarding-house state of society, where frowsy 
young ladies in pink ribbons sing sickly ballads to amorous dry -goods clerks, 
and ogle, at the sentimental parts, some slender swain in shining paper col- 
lar and soiled kid-gloves. They are suggestive of plated forks and printed 
cards of invitation ; of bad cigars and cheap perfumery ; of suspiciously 
large and showy brooches, stuck into not always the most immaculate of 
shirt-bosoms ; — and worse than all, they are suggestive of a mind to save 
washing-bills; of a desire to keep up the "outward and visible signs" of 
decency without the "inward and spiritual grace;" of a whit ed- sepulchre 
style of toilet, content to be all rottenness and corruption within, if it is 
beautiful enough without ; of a class of men who can stay three weeks from 
home on a box of paper collars. Think of a man's going to spend Christ- 
mas at a country house, with his baggage in his pocket ; think of his delib- 
erately turning the soiled side of a " patent reversible perspiration-proof" in 
toward his skin ; what liberties may we not suspect him of taking with the 
invisible and unmentionable parts of his toilet ? Imagination shrinks from 
exploring farther the recesses of such a whited sepulchre. 

Paper collars are typical of a class of men, as well as a state of society. 
A cast-off "patent reversible perspiration-proof" gives as clear an insight 
into the habits and manners of the wearer, as the comparative anatomist can 
obtain from a tooth or a bone of any other animal. The individual distin- 
guished by the " Professor at the Breakfast Table " as the Kohinoor is a per- 
fect specimen of the paper-collar class, and I am as well satisfied that he 
wore a " patent reversible perspiration-proof," enamelled and embossed on 
both sides, as if the "Professor" had taken special care to inform us of the 
fact. The man of thorough paper-collar breeding is essentially one of the 
" fellers." He always has very sleek, greasy hair, carefully curled, and per- 
fumed with cinnamon or bergamot, and is much addicted to light kid-gloves, 
always a little soiled. He wears a huge seal ring on his little finger, (his 
nails are never clean,) and a miraculous brooch, with perhaps studs to match, 
in his shirt-bosom. From his vest-pocket dangles a bulky chain, with a 
quantity of big seals, secret-society badges, etc., at one end, and possibly, a 
watch at the other. His coat and pants are in the latest fashion, his boots 
are glossy as a mirror, but who shall dare to say what is under them ? 

His habits vary slightly in different localities, but not enough to destroy 
the unity of the species. North of the Potomac, he talks through his nose, 
and says, " I calculate ; " farther South, he drawls his vowels, puts his knife 
into his mouth when he eats, and tries to talk literary on magazine stories 
and Miss Evans's novels. As to business pursuits, the Northern type of the 
genus paper-collarls is usually a merchant's clerk, or a small tradesman in 



MARIA J. McIXTOSH. 223 

the dry-goods line ; the Southern, a country beau, who puts on a clean shirt 
every Sunday, to go " sparking " among the girls. The species is chiefly 
indigenous to large commercial towns, and always flourishes best where 
laundresses' fees are highest. It is very widely diffused, however, and exists, 
with slight variations, under all vicissitudes of civilization and nationality, 
and individuals may readily be detected, even when the most prominent 
mark of the species is wanting. Circumstances may have placed certain in- 
dividuals beyond the reach of paper-collar influences, but they have paper- 
collar souls, all the same as though they carried the outward badge of the 
species round their necks. 

There is a class below, as well as one above, paper collars — an honest, humble, 
hard-working class, in homespun shirts, without collars — a class perfectly 
free from vulgarity because perfectly free from pretension. The two extremes 
of society are, perhaps, the only classes entirely free from vulgarity, in the 
proper acceptation of" the word. The one, because it pretends to nothing 
which it is not ; the other, because it pretends to nothing at all. In Europe 
the peasantry are treated with more familiarity by the aristocracy than the 
bourgeoisie ; and of all the lower strata of American society, the least vulgar, 
because the least assuming, are, or rather were, the negroes of the South. 
The ignorance and simplicity of these people kept them below pretension, 
and therefore above vulgarity. The idea of a respectable old " Uncle," as 
old " Uncles " were once, in a paper collar, is as preposterous as the thought 
of General Lee or Wade Hampton in the same guise. Extremes often meet, 
and in many respects the lowest stratum of society is less removed from the 
highest than are the intermediate, or paper-collar classes. The only differ- 
ence between the homespun-shirt man and the paper-collar man is the dif- 
ference between a good piece of stout brown wrapping-paper and the bill of 
a broken bank. The one is good for all it pretends to ; the other is good for 
nothing at all. 



MARIA J. McINTOSH. 

MARIA J. McIXTOSH was bom in 1803, at Sunbury, Liberty 
County, Georgia. Sunbury is forty miles south of Savannah, on 
the sea-coast of Georgia. In a reminiscence of this spot, Miss Mcintosh 
thus records her impressions : 

"Sunbury was beautifully situated, about five miles from the ocean, on a 
bold frith or arm of the sea, stretching up between St. Catharine's Island on 
the one side and the main land on the other — forming apparently the horns 
of a crescent, at the base of which the town stood. It was a beautiful spot, 



224 LIVING FEMALE WRITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 

carpeted with the short-leaved Bermuda grass, and shaded with oak, cedar, 
locust, and a flowering tree, the Pride of India. It was then the summer 
resort of all of the neighboring gentry, who went thither for the sea-air. 
Within the last twenty years it has lost its character for health, and is now a 
desolate ruin ; yet the hearts of those who grow up in its shades still cling 
to the memory of its loveliness, — a recollection which exists as a bond of 
union between them, which no distance can wholly sever. Its sod, still green 
and beautiful as ever, is occasionally visited by a solitary pilgrim, who goes 
thither with something of the tender reverence with which he would visit 
the grave of a beloved friend." 

The house of Major Lachlan Mcintosh, the father of the subject of 
this sketch — who had been commissioned in the American army of 
the Revolution — was a stately old mansion, commanding a full view 
of the water ; and here the first twenty years of her life were spent. 

" The remembrance of the generous hospitality, the graceful society, 
the luxuriant beauty of nature that displayed itself in and around the 
family mansion, is vivid in the mind of our author, and shows itself 
in the fervor and enthusiasm of her language whenever she writes of 
the land of her childhood." * 

At an academy in Sunbury, which dispensed its favors to pupils of 
both sexes, Miss Mcintosh received all of her education for which she 
is indebted to schools. After the death of her parents, Miss Mcintosh 
passed much of her time with a married sister, who resided in New 
York, and afterward with her brother, Captain James M. Mcintosh, 
of the U. S. Navy, whose family had also removed to that city. In 
1835, Miss Mcintosh was induced to sell her property in Georgia, and 
invest the proceeds in New York securities. The commercial crisis 
of 1837 caused her to lose; to awake from her life-dream of prosperity 
— bankrupt. 

" By an almost universal dispensation of Providence, which ordains 
means of defence and support to the frailest foundation of animal life, 
with the new station was granted a power of protection, of pleasure, 
and maintenance, unknown to the old. New feelings and powers 
came into life." . . .* 

A friend advised her to attempt a juvenile series of books, and sug- 
gested "Aunt Kitty" as a nom de plume. Two years after the loss 
of her property, Miss Mcintosh had completed her first book, — a small 
volume, bearing the marks of a feeling, religious mind, and written in 

* Professor John S, Hart. 



maria j. Mcintosh. 225 

a pleasant, easy style, suitable for children, and was entitled " Blind 
Alice." For two years the manuscript of this little volume lay alter- 
nately on the table of the author and the desk of publishers. At last, 
in January, 1841, it was published anonymously. Its success was 
complete. With renewed energy she resumed her pen, and finished 
" Jessie Graham," a work of similar size and character, which was 
published in the summer of the same year. " Florence Arnott," 
" Grace and Clara," and " Ellen Leslie," all of the same class and 
style, appeared successfully and at short intervals, the last being pub- 
lished in 1843. 

These five works are generally known as "Aunt Kitty's Tales." 
They met with great success, and were republished in England with 
equal success. They are simple tales of American life, told in graceful 
and easy language ; conveying a moral of beauty and truthfulness that 
wins love at once for the fictitious character and the earnest writer. 

The following are Miss Mcintosh's volumes. In addition, she has 
contributed many tales to the different magazines. 

6. Conquest and Self-Conquest. 1844. 

7. Woman an Enigma ; or, Life and its Eevelations. 1844. 

8. Praise and Principle. 1845. 

9. The Cousins. A tale for children. 1845. 

All of these works appeared anonymously. The following were pub- 
lished with the name of the author. 

10. Two Lives ; or, To Seem and to Be. 1846. (Seven editions of 
this work were published in less than four years.) 

11. Charms and Counter-Charms. 1848. 

12. Woman in America; her Work and her Keward. 1850. 

13. Evenings at Donaldson Manor; or, The Christmas Guest. 1850. 
(A collection of tales.) 

14. The Lofty and the Lowly. 2 volumes. 1852. 

15. Emily Herbert ; or, The Happy Home. 1855. 

16. Hose and Lillie Stanhope ; or, The Power of Conscience. 

17. Violet; or, The Cross and Crown. 1856. 

18. Met a Gray. A juvenile tale. 1858. 

* " In 1859, Miss Mcintosh, in company with her nephew, (the Hon. 
John Ward, American Minister to China,) and his family, sailed for 
Liverpool. After spending some months in pleasant wanderings about 

*Mary Forrest's "Women of the South." 
29 



226 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

England and France, Miss Mcintosh, in company with Mrs. Ward and 
her children, settled quietly down in one of the picturesque valleys of 
Geneva, Switzerland. Here, in the society of a few genial friends, and 
in tender and worshipful communion with the great heart of Nature, 
she gathered strength and inspiration, and memorized much valuable 
material for future labors. At the beginning of 1860 she returned to 
New York, where she now resides." 

Miss Mcintosh's books have been translated into French, and have 
sold largely in England, France, and on the Continent. 

I will give notices of several of her books, from high critical 
authorities. 

"Conquest and Self-Conquest" was of a more ambitious character 
than any of her previous works, which were published anonymously. 
In the April number of the " Southern Literary Messenger," (1844,) a 
correspondent, in a "gossip about a few books," commences thus : 

" Who can have written the little book called ' Conquest and Self-Con- 
quest ; OR, Whicb makes the Hero ? ' I have read it with a delight that 
no book of its class has inspired me with since 'Sandford and Merton,' 
'The Parent's Assistant/ ' Popular Tales.' Amid the numberless and 
worthless tomes of trash that have in recent times superseded those glories 
of English literature just named, it is meat and drink to one who relishes an 
exquisite blending of the sweet with the useful to find such a treat as this ' Con- 
quest and Self-Conquest.' It is a story of an American boy, who, after an 
early education at home, under the eye of a judiciously fond mother, went, 
at eleven years of age, to a grammar school ; fought, was beaten ; grew 
stronger in body and principles; won the heart of his adversary; entered the 
navy ; and there, in a career of virtue and honor, proved how unnecessary 
vice or ferocity is to a high place among the sons of maritime glory. Except 
Miss Edgeworth and the author of ' Sandford and Merton,' I do not know a 
writer who has so happily portrayed true heroism." 

" Woman an Enigma.* This is an attempt to delineate, not moral prin- 
ciples that are well defined — not religious duties that are more easily de- 
picted — but the ideal, impalpable, varied substance of woman's love. The 
first scene in the book opens in a convent in France, where young Louise 
waits upon a dying friend, and the friend leaves her ward as an affianced 
bride to her brother, the Marquis de Montrevel. 

" The vow is duly made between the noble courtier and the trusting girl. 
Louise is then taken to Paris by her parents, and introduced into fashionable 
life with its gayeties and seductions, while the Marquis is absent on his estate. 

* Professor John S. Hart. 



maria j. Mcintosh. 227 

The new world of pleasure has no effect on the novice, save so far as it stimu- 
lates her to excel, that she may be the more worthy of her husband's love. 
She mingles in the dance to acquire grace, in the soirie to learn the styles 
of fashionable life — and all for the sole purpose of being the better fitted to 
be the companion and wife of the high-born noble. But the absent lover 
hears of the brilliant life of his so lately timid girl, and, ignorant of the 
mighty power that impels her to the exertion, scorns the supposed fickleness 
that will give to the many that regard which he had hoped to have won ex- 
clusively for himself. 

"Then follows the portion of the work which most perfectly pictures the 
author's idea of womanly love. The earnest toil of the poor girl for the 
pittance of a smile that is rewarded by jealousy with a sneer ; the passionate 
pride of the wounded woman ; the stern sorrow of the man ; and the final 
separation, are all true to the instincts of that master feeling." 

" Charms and Counter-Charms. * In this work the author seems to 
have concentrated the strength of her artistic and womanly nature. It is 
threaded with veins and nerves, as if she had dipped her pen in living hearts 
and written on and on because the elastic tide would flow. It impresses 
one with a painful sense of reality, and at the same time with a conflicting 
sense of unnaturalness, not of highly wrought fiction, but of intense truth. 
The plot is complicate, but well defined and sustained. Questions of vital 
import are involved, and worked out with a will and fervor which leave 
their indelible record upon the memory of the reader. 

" Euston Hastings, the hero, belongs, we should say, to the German type of 
organism and temperament. A ' dark man/ the philosopher Alcott would 
call him, with luminous phases. A man of strong will and rare physical 
and spiritual magnetism ; skilled in metaphysical disquisition, worldly-wise, 
skeptical, and sufficient ; lofty and cold as a mountain peak to the many, 
but to those who interest him, or whom for any reason he would interest, 
warm, winsome, and low-voiced as the sigh of a summer twilight ; a man 
of whom we can most of us say we have known one such in a lifetime ; one 
whom we admired and deprecated ; a sphere that was not loud nor discordant, 
but deep and unserene ; a spirit that knew its power and loved to test it, 
though in the process it stirred and troubled many waters. 

"Evelyn Beresford, a young girl of warm heart and generous impulses, the 
pet and sunbeam of her father's house, marries Euston Hastings, and is 
borne along his fiery orbit, ignoring, to meet his exactions, one after another, 
the finer and holier instincts of her nature, till at last she reaches a point 
from whence she must retrace her steps or lose all. Stifling the cry of her 
agonized heart, she goes forth from his home, with her frail life in her hand, 
and Euston Hastings, left alone with the memory of her love and prayerful 
vigils, for the first time awakes to a sense of 'heart within and God o'erhead.' 

*Mary Forrest. 



228 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Penitent and subdued, he seeks out the fugitive, and a new union, based upon 
the sympathy and fitness of divine appointment, secures to both the happiness 
which had well-nigh been wrecked forever." 

"Violet; or, The Cross and Crown. This work is marked by fine 
delineations and dramatic power, no less than by simplicity and pathos. 

"The story unfolds with a wild shipwreck scene on the coast of New 
Jersey. A sweet babe, the only living thing upon the stranded vessel, is 
found lashed to an upper berth, while its dead mother lies, white and cold, 
beneath the water on the cabin floor. The burial scene upon that desolate 
shore — the group of rude wreckers, and the lone waif child — the still 
sleeper in the rough deal box — the ' dust to dust ' of the sublime service, 
mingling with the hoarse roar of the ocean — is singularly impressive. The 
book is full of such pictures. 

" The foundling is claimed by one of the wreckers, and taught to look upon 
him and his coarse companions as her natural protectors. While yet very 
young, by one of the coincidences occasional to real life, inevitable to romance, 
she is thrown into the presence of her true father, who, unconscious of their 
tender relation, yet impelled by an undefinable instinct, adopts his unknown 
child. She is baptized Violet Ross, in memory of his angel wife — her 
mother — and removed from the lawless wreckers to a refined and luxurious 
home. But amid the amenities of her new position, one thought haunted 
and distressed her : she is not Violet Ross, the daughter of her noble foster- 
father, but Mary Van Dyke, and must still say ' father ' to the repulsive 
wrecker, and 'mother' to the wrecker's wife; they have a first claim, and 
may at any time recall her. The good pastor tells her that every human 
creature must bear a cross on earth who would wear a crown in heaven, and 
that this is her cross. That night the angels record the vow of the beautiful 
girl to bear cheerfully and unfalteringly the burden imposed upon her ; and 
then commences a life of sacrifice, and a series of events which give to the 
book a peculiar and deep interest. Many a bruised heart has lifted itself 
hopefully in the light of little Violet's smile and the strength of the promise, 
thus happily presented, ' Bear the cross, and ye shall wear the crown.' " * 

f'Miss Mcintosh restricts herself in the characters of her story, and selects 
only the common ones of practical life, as though anxious for the principle 
alone, and the fiction that would draw the reader off from the moral is dis- 
carded. In her quiet pages there never occurs the extreme either of character 
or passion. It is only the system of conscience — the rule of right — the law 
of God that is portrayed ; and the more marked characters, or the more easily 
delineated beauties and feelings of life and nature, are left with a rigid indif- 
ference to those whose design is to please more than to instruct. 

" Yet the reader, when the book is closed, and he has gone to his daily 
labor, or mingles in social life, finds lingering in his brain and warming in 

*Mary Forrest's " Women of the South." | Professor John S. Hart. 



KATE CLIFFORD KENAN. 229 

his heart, a true principle of honor and love that is constantly contrasting 
itself with the hollow forms by which he is surrounded ; and if he fails to 
bear himself up to that high ideal of principle which he feels to be true, he 
still walks a little nearer to his conscience and his God; and long after the 
volume is returned to the shelf and forgotten, a kindly benediction is given 
to the noble influence it excited. And thus will it be with the author 
who lives in the hearts and not in the fancy of her readers. And long after 
she is returned to the great library of the unforgotten dead, a blessing, wide 
as her language and fervent as devotion, will descend on the delineator of 
those lofty principles that showed the nobleness of simplicity and the holi- 
ness of truth." 



KATE CLIFFORD KENAN. 

VIOLETTA AND I; by "Cousin Kate." Edited by M. J. 
Mcintosh. Boston. 1870. 
The motto of this little volume is from Longfellow : 

"... Gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust." 

This is a beautiful story of the Southern sea-side. It is short, and 
reads very much as if it were a study for a more ambitious book of 
the future. The style will remind the reader of "Aunt Kitty's Tales," 
of her earlier works. The chapter giving an account of Maggie's 
" want to learn physic, and practice, and have a gig, and a man to 
beat the mortar, and do like her father and Thomas, and not her 
mother and Violetta," shows that "Cousin Kate" has humor in her 
composition. The "good doctor" is a pathetic study — poetry delin- 
eated in the character of a country doctor. 

The story purports to be a grandmother's history of her girlhood. 
The picture of the little Otilia and the old doctor — companions, 
" babyhood " and " old age " — is charming, and gives evidence of 
pathetic power possessed by the young author. The old doctor was 
growing old — 

" Much of his old wit and dry humor left him also ; and he seemed like 
some good husbandman, who will shortly set out on a journey. The little 
Otilia, in her shy, dreamy way, seemed to be a better companion to him than 
any other ; and often the two would sit together in the office porch, and Otilia 



230 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

would sing to him sometimes little hymns, sometimes broken parts of a 
German chant that she had heard from her old nurse — the hazy sunlight, 
as it fell upon the pair, showing often that both had fallen asleep ; and I said 
to myself as I saw them, that the pure heart of the child rested against the 
pure heart of the man ; for through all of life's warfare could there be any 
more simple, more tender, than this gray -haired father ? I think, when he 
entered heaven, the little children, who love the guileless and the good, must 
have led his feet by the golden river, and never known how he was old and 
weary in this world before he came to theirs, so little had the years touched 
the true heart." 

Miss Kate Clifford Kenan is the daughter of Mr. M. J. Kenan, of 
Milledgeville, Ga. She is young, and resides with her parents in the 
eity mentioned. Mrs. Kenan (whose maiden name was Spalding) is a 
native of the sea-coast of Georgia, near Darien, and is related to the 
Mcintosh family, who settled there in the early days of colonization. 
The distinguished authoress, Miss Maria J. Mcintosh, was an intimate 
friend of the family of Mr. and Mrs. Spalding — Mrs. Kenan's parents 
in her girlhood — and her noble heart testifies its love and remem- 
brance of the past by ushering into the literary world the first book of 
Miss Kate Kenan — " Violetta and I." 

Miss Kenan's early life was spent on the sea-coast of Georgia ; and 
the graphic sketches of sea-coast adventure and existence, of peril and 
rescue, are the results of her own experience and observation. About 
ten years ago, when Miss Kenan's family removed from the sea-coast 
to Milledgeville, she was hardly more than a child. Her vivid pic- 
tures of sea-side life are the result of her early impressions when she 
daily gazed at " old ocean," and sometimes, in the language of Byron, 

"... laid her hand upon his mane." 

Miss Kenan has furnished numerous verses and prose sketches to 
various newspapers. 



THE DOCTOR. 



When I recall the kind of practice this dear old gentleman did, I am often 
troubled at the force of an unpleasant truth. I often had to own to myself 
that he would not have stood very high at this day, for he believed physic a 
humbug, and nature the best doctor ; and though I never doubted, when he 
was telling me so, that he was right, yet many learned men have arisen, and 



KATE CLIFFORD KENAN. 231 

many learned things are now in fashion ; and it is clear to me my father did 
not practise as they do. The older he grew, the fewer medicines did he 
carry in his square chest ; and I sometimes thought his dear memory was 
failing him. He prescribed frequently " fresh air " and " fresh water." Once I 
feared he had made the wife of a Dutch skipper very angry. She brought her 
little child to my father's office, and for the life of me I couid not tell which 
was its head and which its feet, as it lay across her bosom, so completely 
was it enwrapped in shawls. I saw a queer little smile in the corner of my 
father's eye, as he commenced unrolling the wrappings, until he came to a 
poor little, smothered, white face — all the while listening to a crowd of ail- 
ments. To my surprise, he handed the little thing over to me, and bade me 
sit with it in the sunshine ; and, as I carried it out, I heard him say to the 
mother, " Sunshine, madam ; that 's the first prescription, and don't cost a 
cent ; fresh water, madam, that 's the next, and fully as cheap — not a thim- 
bleful to start it crying, with no beneficial effects, but a tubful, madam, 
enough to wet the whole of its skin at once." And then I heard a great 
oath from my father, — for he sometimes said such things when very much 
excited, though he always expressed his regret afterward for having done so. 
The oath now, it seems, was because the little morsel I held in my arms so 
tightly, for fear the sunshine would melt it, or the sea-breeze coax it away, 
ate " things " just as the burly skipper and his wife did — a fact which the 
honest Dutchwoman told with great pride. Though I am certain my father 
would not have wounded the feelings of a humming-bird, yet it sounded 
wickedly to me when he said, " Madam, with such a taste, I fear your child 
will not be content with milk and honey, which is, I hear, the simple diet of 
a better world." When she comprehended him fully, I heard her sobbing 
gently, and my father's old, kind manner returning, he told her that we had 
Bible doctrine for milk for babes, and not strong meat ; and when she had 
gone away hugging the little one up to her motherly heart, and stopping 
every now and then to kiss it, I said, " Father, how could you make her cry 
about the babe ? " and he said, as he drew me on his knee, smoothing the 
curly locks so like his own : " Sweet heart, did I ever make thee cry but for 
thine own good ? Tears shed for innocent error are not bitter ; only conscious 
guilt draws burning tears. When thy little hands lifted the young mocking 
birds from their nest last spring, and I told thee how the mother would grieve 
for her lost nestlings, thy tears fell fast; but they were quenched, dear little 
heart, when I restored them to their nest. So with yonder poor woman. She 
lifted her baby from the proper place where God had put it, and she only 
cried to see what she had done, as thou didst; but she will not cry any more, 
for only mismanagement ailed the babe, and she will bear in mind what I 
told her concerning it." And several months after, the same woman came; 
but the baby was so rosy I hardly knew it. Wherever a patch of sunshine 
fell, it crawled over the floor toward it, and once I saw it trying to catch a 
beam which slanted in through the lattice ; and I thought my father must 

t 



232 LIVING PE1ALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

have given it some drugs; but he only said, "Nay, thou little medicine- chest, 
not any of thy drugs ! " And afterward, as was his common habit when he 
could think of nothing else to tell Thomas to do, he lifted me on his knee, 
and bade him burnish the instruments — those instruments that his dear 
old hands never touched if he could help it, and which he kept as bright as 
silver, but always locked up in the skeleton case. 



MARY LOUISE COOK. 

IN 1869, a novel, entitled " Ante-Bellum ; or, Southern Life as it 
Was," was published by J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia. 
" Mary Lennox " was the name given as the author ; and it was dedi- 
cated to " the friends of the South." " Ante-Bellum " was, as the title 
would imply, a story of Southern life before the war, naturally por- 
trayed, written in a simple style. 

A Georgia writer reviewed this novel in a long criticism : 

• "The name itself calls up so many happy memories of Eden -like homes, 
holidays, and pastimes that we are prepared to be pleased before the book is 
epened. After that, the history of an orphan girl, who wrought out her life 
to a successful issue of happiness and love by a simple adherence to the rules 
of duty and Christian kindness, enchains the heart as scene after scene of 
Southern life is unfolded. As the author, with a master-hand, portrays some 
scene so lifelike to memory, you think your own experience has been turned 
into history, and chronicled by some sympathizing friend." 

A writer in a Northern paper, in a review of "Ante-Bellum," writes 
thus: 

" The South owes the author a debt of gratitude for the beautiful word- 
painting she has given of many Southern scenes of ante-bellum memory. . . . 
The sentiment of the book is elevating and exquisitely chaste and refined; 
and her sensible and timely views upon home education for girls are calcu- 
lated to be of benefit. Our greatest objection to the book is, that its political 
tendency is to keep alive the spirit of discord and dissension which exists 
between the North and the South, by appealing to sectional pride and preju- 
dice ; but its excellent rhetoric and ethics almost compensate for this." 

This latter criticism disarms itself, as it arises simply from the pre- 
judice of the writer's own mind ; and any impartial reader would free 



CORNELIA BORDERS. 233 

the author of " Ante-Bellum " from the charge of attempting, in its 
pages, to fan the flames of useless strife, though the love of the South 
and devotion to her speaks throughout the book. 

Mrs. Cook — the owner of the pseudonym "Mary Lennox" — is a 
native of the State of Georgia, and has for a number of years resided 
in Columbus. Her maiden name was Redd. She was left an orphan 
at an early age, and was married, when quite young, to Mr. James C. 
Cook, a planter. 

Poetry, music, painting, and all that is elevating and refining, are a 
part of her nature. Surrounded, as she is and has been, with every 
luxury, and occupying a high social position, writing, with Mrs. 
Cook, has been and is an expression of her soul which could not be 
kept back. She writes because she cannot help it. On the walls of 
her home one sees evidence of her skill as an artist. " Ante-Bellum " 
is Mrs. Cook's only published book. She is, at present, contributing 
short poems and stories to different Southern journals. 

1871. E. M. 



CORNELIA BORDERS. 

THE subject of this sketch is a native Georgian, and was reared in 
the village of Hamilton, that nestles between abrupt hills, which 
give to the surrounding scenery a wild and picturesque appearance. 
There, beside flowing waters and mountain slopes, and in the midst of 
valleys rich with forest growth, she rambled in her youth and saw the 
gorgeous sunsets that are only seen in such a region. She loved nature, 
and her rambles amidst these scenes deepened and intensified her 
feelings. The amusements that so generally attract the young did not 
interest her so much as books and the companionship of her own 
thoughts. Her parents encouraged her love of books ; and her father 
(the late Colonel William C. Osborn), with rare judgment, selected 
such works for her as would give strength to her character and deepen 
her moral sentiments. The strength of character, firmness of purpose, 
and noble resolution that distinguish her, are due (next to the training 
of her mother, a very superior woman,) to the course of reading that 
she pursued at an early age. 
Miss Osborn accompanied the family of Hon. Henry AV. Hilliard 
SO 



234 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

to Europe, when that gentleman was appointed Minister to Belgium, 
being a near relative of Mrs. Hilliard. Soon after her return 
from Europe, she was married to Augustus Borders, Esq., a lawyer. 
Some time after their marriage they removed to Texas, where Mr. 
Borders died. Mrs. Borders, after her husband's death, removed to 
Houston, and devoted much of her time to writing. 

At the close of the war, she returned to Columbus, Ga., where she 
now resides. Mrs. Borders has recently completed a work entitled 
'•'Fortune's Wheel; or, Life's Vicissitudes," which is ready for pub- 
lication. Several distinguished gentlemen who have perused the MS. 
pronounce it superior to anything issued from the South for years. 

The Hon. Alexander H. Stephens writes : 

" I have given the work a careful perusal from the beginning to the end. 
The best evidence of my opinion of its merits is that I was interested in it 
from the first line to the last. In my judgment the work has real merit. As 
it progresses it becomes more interesting ; after a while it becomes exceed- 
ingly so. The moral of it surpasses any work of the kind I have read lately ; 

no one can read it without benefit." 

H. 



>>©<c 



MRS. EPPIE B. CASTLEN. 

AMONG the candidates for poetical honors of the female writers 
of the South — who from her youth, her energy, her genius, and 
the rapidity with which she conceives and executes her committal to 
language of those inspirations which overflow her soul like a river, 
indicates plainly the prominence she is destined to hold in Southern 
literature — is Mrs. Eppie Bowdre Castlen. 

Mrs. Castlen is the daughter of Judge P. E. Bowdre and his wife, 
— nee Miss Labuzan, of Augusta, Ga. — and the wife of Dr. F. G. 
Castlen, of Macon, Ga. Her birthplace was Thomaston, Ga. Her 
parents lived for a short time during her girlhood in New Orleans; 
and, being of French blood and Gallic temperament, her recollections 
of that Franco- American city are of the most agreeable character. It 
was here, on the borders of that mighty river which bears deservedly 
the title of "Father of Waters," that her girlish muse first found ex- 
pression in words. 



EPPIEB. CASTLE N. * 235 

Within the past two years, writing as she always does, not for fame, 
but, to use her own expressive phrase, because she cannot resist the 
inclination to put her ideas in words, she has contributed to several 
literary journals of the South. 

In the autumn of 1870, D. Appleton & Co., New York, published 
the poems produced within the past two years by Mrs. Castlen, in a 
handsome volume, entitled "Autumn Dreams; by Chiquita" — the 
latter being Mrs. Castlen's pseudonym. This volume is illustrated by 
a steel engraving of the charming face of the authoress. 

Mrs. Castlen has for several years resided in Macon, Ga. Her 
home is one of the loveliest in that city, situated on the beautiful 
"Hill" crowned with many elegant mansions. Already her active 
brain has planned, and her cunning hand is executing, another literary 
task, which promises to eclipse "Autumn Dreams;" and from her 
youth, her genius, her thoroughly awakened ambition, we may safely 
predict for her a high rank among the " Southern Writers " of the 
future. 

October, 1870. W. G. M. 



AUTUMN DAYS. 



"The melancholy days are come — the saddest of the year! " 

The berries have to scarlet turned ; and bare, and brown, and sere, 

Hard beaten by the fretful rain, the harvest fields appear. 

Unfolded lie the grand and gorgeous glories of the wood ! 

And on the hillside, where the blue-eyed flowers in beauty stood, 

The Autumn-hued vines lowly bend to meet winds strong and rude. 

Like Summer rain the golden leaves in showers patter down, 
Adorning gnarled and knotted roots with nature's brilliant crown, 
Not heeding moans, nor winds, nor storms, that tell of Winter's frown. 

Or on the clear, bright bosom of the ever murmuring stream 

They softly lie, and kiss with crimson lips the waves that gleam, 

And dance, and rise, and swell, and tremble 'neath the Moon's pale beam. 

Upon projecting, barren rocks, 'midst mountain wilds its home, 
The fierce, defensive, bristling pine, with stiff and spiral form, 
In scanty dress a guardian stands, and proudly meets the storm. 



236 LlflNG FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

And patriot chief, thou grand old oak, thou monarch brave and true ! 

How much of human feeling (since from acorns small you grew,) 

Has ebbed and flowed? — How much of grandeur, space and time seen you. 

The heart has felt the beauty of the Summer woods — of gales 
That wav'd the leaves and blossoms, blushing in the lowly dales, 
And these sweet, thornless treasures, lost, the sad heart still bewails. 

A morn of beauty soon will rise ! nor over Summer's bier, 

Nor folded, faded petals, shall we drop the hopeless tear, 

Sweet flowers, bright days, will come again ; — the gladdest of the year. 

Macon, Ga., January 14th, 1870. 



MRS. A. P. HILL. 

MRS. HILL is the author of a valuable book on "Cookery," pub- 
lished by Carleton, New York, 1870. 

"Mrs. Hill's New Cook-Book" is the title of a handsome duodecimo 
volume of over four hundred pages, every receipt in which has been 
tested by experienced practical housekeepers. The directions in the 
culinary art are interspersed with an occasional sentiment, showing 
that the authoress has a taste for literature as well as for the delicacies 
of the table. 

Mrs. Hill has prepared, by request of the church of which she is a 
member, a biography of the Rev. John E. Dawson, of the Baptist 
denomination. She has also contributed, under the name of " Ruth," 
to various religious publications. 

Mrs. Hill, whose maiden name was Dawson, was born in Morgan 
County, Ga., early in the century. Her parents were Virginians. Her 
husband was the late Edward Y. Hill, Judge of the Superior Court 
of Georgia, and at one time nominated for the gubernatorial chair of 
Georgia. His death at the noontide of life left his widow with 
the care and training of several children. Faithfully has she dis- 
charged her duties as a judicious mother. Two noble sons were killed 
during the war between the sections. Bereft of her stay, her fortunes 
shattered in the general wreck, Mrs. Hill accepted with becoming 
dignity and fortitude her position. With praiseworthy self-reliance 



MARY F. McADO. • 237 

she set about the compilation of her book of domestic receipts. Her 
exj^eriment has proven a success. Although in feeble health and ad- 
vanced in years, she still exhibits a spirit of enterprise and progress 
truly striking. She now holds the position of Superintendent of the 
"Orphans' Free School," which she organized, and which numbers 
nearly two hundred pupils, located at Atlanta, Georgia. 

November 30th, 1870. Mrs. Colquitt. 



MBS. MARY F. McADO. 

MRS. McADO— the wife of Colonel W. G. McAdo, of Milledge- 
ville, Ga. — is the granddaughter of General John Floyd, who 
commanded the Georgia troops in the war with the Creek Indians in 
1813-14, and is the daughter of General Charles R. Floyd, of Camden 
County, Georgia, who died prematurely in 1845, when the subject of 
this notice w T as in early girlhood. Mrs. Floyd died shortly after her 
husband, and on the youthful Mary Faith devolved the onerous duties 
of superintending the household. For that reason, her education at 
schools was not as complete as it would have been had her parents lived ; 
but her indomitable energy has achieved perhaps more than if she had 
been more favored in this respect. She is an accomplished scholar, 
profound in her knowledge of books and of human nature. 

At a youthful age, Miss Floyd married Mr. Randolph McDonald, 
of St. Mary's, who died of yellow fever at Savannah, in 1854. In 
1858, the young widow 7 was married to Colonel W. G. McAdo, at that 
time Attorney-General of the Knoxville Circuit in Tennessee. During 
the " war between the States," Colonel McAdo removed his family to 
Georgia, and now resides in Milledgeville. Husband and wife are 
congenial — being studious in their habits, fond of books, the possessors 
of a large library, and both somewhat addicted to authorship. 

Mrs. McAdo (whose literary pseudonym "Mary Faith Floyd" is 
simply her maiden name) is the author of many small poems. She 
is also a frequent contributor, both in prose and verse, to several mag- 
azines and papers of the day, and is the author of two romances of 
merit — "The ISereid," whose scene is her native sea-coast of Georgia, 
and " Antethusia," which embodies her impressions of Eastern Ten- 
nessee, where she resided from 1858 to 1862. Of the two performances 
last mentioned it is idle to speak. 



238 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

The public will soon have an opportunity of judging for themselves 
of their merits. They possess originality of style and matter, and 
being located in fields hitherto unexplored by the busy legion of fiction 
writers. Mrs. McAdo has other and more serious literary undertakings 
projected ; and her energy scarcely allows a day to intervene between 
planning and executing in such cases. 

She possesses one remarkable characteristic — an administrative 
capacity so active and comprehensive that her literary labors do not 
detract from the bestowal of all the attention to the comforts of her 
large household, which the best of housewives are accustomed to 
vouchsafe. 
1S71. 



ONEIROPION. 



Drifting in an eternity of space, 

My soul all quivering and naked lay 
Upon the undulating waves of time, 

In the full blazing heat of a noonday. 

Clay casket locked in opium's dreamy trance, 
My spirit on glad pinions now set free, 

Like ship, all sails unfurled, and rudderless, 

Breasted the great deep with untrammelled glee. 

The billowy waves that broke on foaming cliffs 
Were slaves, not masters, to its bounding speed — 

On, on, forever on in trackless space 
It sped, a living, quivering, wavering reed. 

Now diving deep to famed old coral halls, 
Then gliding o'er Old Ocean's sparkling floor, 

Then spreading its swift wings through ^Ether's dome, 
It soared to distant spheres ne'er reached before. 

Finite in infinite like a scroll unrolled, 

And cloud empurpled banners edged with gold, 

Borne up on breezy wings of endless time, 
Displayed earth's deathless names by Fame enrolled. 



THEODOSIA FORD. 239 

Quivering with hope my soul all naked lay, 

And sought to find its name there graven in light, 

But clouds rolled up between, with darkened folds, 
And hid the banners in the gloom of night. 

In darkness deep desponding, my soul fled, 

Once more rocked on the roaring billows deep, 

Till, lost 'mid icy breakers of despair, 

It sank in dreamless shroud of endless sleep. 

O Time! O Waves! What care to ye or yours 

How many naked panting souls must lie 
Wailing upon thy bleak and rocky shores, 

Lost in thy deafening roar their piercing cry? 
August, 1870. 



THEODOSIA FORD. 

WRITING for children is in itself an art, and in the South there 
are writers who are directing their talents to amuse and instruct 
the children of their section. Among this number, deserving of men- 
tion, is Mrs. Theodosia Ford, w T ho has been a contributor to the 
" Riverside Magazine " and " Burke's Monthly for Boys and Girls." 
Her sketches have been copied by the press generally. She writes 
over her initials. 

Mrs. Ford is a native of Savannah, a sister of General Francis S. 
Bartow, of Georgia — who fell at the first battle of Manassas — and 
the widow of the Rev. Dr. Ford, for many years rector of St. Paul's 
(Episcopal) Church, in Augusta, Ga. 

Mrs. Ford's home is at Woodstock, in the neighborhood of Cave 
Spring, which is her post-office. Mrs. Ford has been compelled by ill 
health to give up a school for young ladies, of which she was principal, 
and to rely upon her pen. 

A charming little volume of Christmas Stories and Tales is now 
(1871) in the press of Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger, Philadelphia. 



JANIE OLLIVAK. 

LTNCONNUE was the signature to poems "brief and charming" 
that appeared for the years between '61 and '65 — that awful 
time of war and devastation — in the " Southern Field and Fireside," 
a weekly literary journal published in Augusta, Georgia. 

The unknown was a young lady of Augusta, Miss Janie Ollivar. 
Here is one of her poems. A critic said of these verses : " The last 
stanza is one of the sweetest in the language. Truly the morning- 
glories have shaken much freshness into her songs." 

MOKNING DKEAMS. 

How sweetly rests the fervid cheek 

Upon the dimpled arm ! 
These purple morning-glories seek 

To break her slumber's charm. 

They clamber to her casement wide, 

To watch her in her sleep, 
And with the sunlight, side by side, 

In her visions creep. 

She smiles ! How little seems to wake 

Her smiles. To me it seems 
As if these morning-glories shake 

Their freshness through her dreams. 

" LTnconnue's " harp is seldom heard now. Since the close of the 
war she has " obliged Mr. Benson " by taking his name. 



JULIA BACON. 

MISS BACON is not as well known as a writer as she deserves to 
be. She is a native of Macon, Ga., and has always resided in 
her native State. She has published prose and verse under several 
240 



JULIA BACON. 241 

noms deplume, the most popular of which is "Mollie Myrtle." Miss 
Bacon possesses a keen sense of the ridiculous, and excels in humorous 
articles. This disposition is inherited, for "Ned Brace," of the "Geor- 
gia Scenes," was a kinsman of hers. She has been highly complimented 
for her descriptions of scenery. She has a novel ready for publication. 
Kesident of Howard, Taylor County, Georgia. (1871.) The following 
verses have been extensively copied by the press throughout the country. 

WILL'S A WIDOWER! 

The night-bird sings her plaintive song, 

Will 's a widower ! 
On zephyr's wing 'tis borne along, 
In simple wood-notes clear and strong, 

Will's a widower! 

Methinks a tone of sadness dwells 

In that wild, simple lay ; 
And mournful is the tale she tells 

Beneath the moon's soft ray. 

Poor widowed Will! we grieve to hear 

Will 's a widower ! 
But mourn not for the lost one dear, 
The living only need our care. 

Will's a widower! 

Perchance in some sequestered grove, 

His life may sweetly glide, 
If he consents to take and love 

Another birdie bride. 

Go tell him this, and cease to sing 

Will's a widower! 
And let us hear in early spring 
Your echoes through the forest ring, 

Will's no widower! 

31 



E. W. BACCHUS. 

A POEM, entitled "The Confederate Dead," published in 1866 — 
signed "Latienne" — struck the popular fancy, and was copied 
into the newspapers of the South most extensively. These lines are to 
be found in several compilations of Southern poems of the war. 

"Latienne" has published other poems, in several journals, of dif- 
ferent grades of merit. We give herewith a few stanzas from a poem 
written at the occasion of the late Charles Dickens's visit to the 
United States. 

We see his creatures, — form, dress, face, — 

And hear the tales they tell ; 
Know every one's accustomed place 

And trick of gesture, well ; 
Here, Peggoty, with honest brow, *■ 

Gives welcome blunt and true; 
There, Turveydrop's majestic bow 

O'erwhelms us with adieu. 

We gaze with loving vision, while 

Draws near, with gentle grace, 
Dear Agnes, with her heav'nly smile, 

And calmly noble face; 
But turn from Pecksniff with disgust, 

The hand of Pinch to shake, 
And leave Uriah in the dust, 

A spurned and writhing snake. 

We bend, a childish couch above, 

And hear the shore's long sighs, 
As, drifting from the arms of love, 

The heir of Dombey dies. 

We enter Bleak House with a smile, 

For Esther's smile is there; 
We linger by the ancient pile 

Where Dedlock's glories were. 
As poor Miss Flite for judgment looks 

To Heav'n's high court, do we, 
Half wondering that its patience brooks 

An earthly chancery. 
242 



E. W. BACCHUS. 243 

Ah! wondrous is the power which breathes 

Such life in forms of art, 
And with a band of shadows wreathes 

The universal heart; 
Which speaks with voice whose music thrills 

In echoes, o'er and o'er, 
The list'ning ear, that eager fills, 

Yet ever asks for "more." 

Far dearer than the conq'ror's fame 

Is his that mirrored lies — 
With every echo of his name — 

In moved and tender eyes ; 
Nor civic crown need covet he, 

Whose arms far reaching span, 
And bind in common sympathy 

The brotherhood of man. 

" Latienne " is the pen-name of Miss Lizzie W. Bacchus, a native 
of Wilmington, N. C. During the late war, the family of Miss 
Bacchus became refugees, and settled in Savannah, Ga., where they 
now reside. The subject of this notice is a teacher at Eufaula, Ala. 




ALABAMA. 



MADAME ADELAIDE DE V. CHAUDRON. 



L^_c^gj HIS lady, who stands unsurpassed as translator of the now 
cfip! oHU famous Miihlbach novels, is a resident of Mobile. Her 
father was Emile de Vendel, a teacher of some distinction 
in a country where teaching is regarded as one of the pro- 
fessions, and where intellect, education, and birth are principally 
valued as the " open sesames " of good society. Adelaide de Vendel 
was married at an early age to Mr. West, of St. Louis : he was a law- 
yer by profession. After his death, she resided in Mobile, where she 
contracted a second marriage with Mr. Paul Chaudron. Left again 
a widow, she was compelled by misfortune to adopt her father's honor- 
able occupation, and being well qualified by her talents and accom- 
plishments, she assumed the charge of a seminary for youug ladies, a 
position she still fills. 

She is known as an author principally from her translation of the 
" Joseph II." of the Miihlbach novels, and also for her compilation of a 
series of readers and a spelling-book, during the late war. These were 
published in Mobile, and adopted in the public schools of that city ; 
they are regarded as really excellent text-books. 

The " Round Table," a journal not usually too favorable in its judg- 
ment of Southern authors, speaks thus of the translation of the " Jo- 
seph II. and his Court": 

" The translation of this volume is unusually praiseworthy. Some small 
things might be said by way of criticism, but we pass them in deference to 
its general superiority. A translator is to be tested by the success with 
which the spirit of the original is preserved in the translation. To translate 
words is a simple task, but to re-embody the original work in its spirit in the 
translation is the work of genius. Madame Chaudron, to achieve this result, 
has dared to assume the responsibility of a free translation, and has succeeded." 
244 



KATE CUMMING. 245 

S. H. Goetzel, of Mobile, publisher and bookseller, had published 
before the war a number of books in a style and on a scale never 
before attempted in the Southern States ; but having to contend with 
the many difficulties as a pioneer in this field of enterprise, he had 
realized little profit from it when the "Confederate" war broke out, 
paralyzing all pursuits not military in character. 

In the course of the war the demand for other than military books 
began to revive. The Federal blockade cut off the Southern States 
from all of the ordinary sources of supply. Soldiers in camp or gar- 
rison, and still more in the hospital, began to crave for something to 
read. Anxious hearts at home felt the lack of the stimulus or diver- 
sion of literary novelty even more than in ordinary times. It was 
then that Mr. Goetzel's acquaintance with contemporary German 
literature suggested to him the bright idea of introducing" to the 
"Confederate" public the fascinating sensationalism of the Miihlbach 
novels, previously unknown to either English or American readers. 
"Joseph the Second and his Court" was the first English version of 
any of these (audaciously styled) "historical novels," which have since 
become so popular in America. It was issued in four parts or vol- 
umes, and had a great run. * 

Mrs. Chaudron is appreciated in the society of Mobile. She has 
fine conversational powers, an excellent memory, and a happy faculty 
in imparting ideas and knowledge gathered from general reading; her 
fine musical powers make her an acquisition to any circle ; but her 
spedalite is decidedly the acquisition of foreign languages. 
1869. 

MISS KATE CUMMING. 

MISS CUMMING hardly can be classed as a "writer" in the pro- 
fessional interpretation of that term, " Hospital Life in the Army 
of the Tennessee " being her only contribution to the literature of 
the country. 

Miss dimming is of Scotch descent, and has resided in Mobile since 
childhood. 

" Hospital Life in the Army of the Tennessee " was published by 
John P. Morton & Co., Louisville, Kentucky, in 1866. Says a re- 
viewer : 

*For these facts I am indebted to Major W. T. Walthall 



246 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

"At the first glance over the title-page of this book, the reader will, 
very likely, form an opinion of it from the work written by Miss Florence 
Nightingale after the Crimean War. But Miss Cumming's book is of a 
very different character. Miss Nightingale confined herself almost entirely 
to her life in the hospitals at Scutari and its vicinity, and gave minute 
directions upon the subject of nursing the sick and wounded, the manage- 
ment of hospitals, and general clinical treatment. Miss Cumming aims to 
do more than this. She was constantly with the army in the field, received 
the wounded in nearly every action, and assisted in organizing the field hos- 
pitals in the memorable campaigns in Tennessee, Kentucky, and finally in 
Georgia, when the army was retreating. She has told the story in a plain, 
straightforward manner, made up from the diary kept through the war ; and 
has presented a very fair history of the operations of the Western army 
under Bragg, Johnston, and Hood. To the soldiers of the Army of the Ten- 
nessee, and to their relatives and friends, this book contains much that is 
interesting. An heroic woman leaves, her comfortable home in the Gulf 
City, and offers her services as a matron in the corps of field-nurses. She 
devotes her whole time to the care of the sick and wounded soldiers, sees to 
the cleansing of their hospital wards, attends to their food, and often with 
her own hand prepares delicacies for those prostrate with wounds or burn- 
ing with fever. But she is not located in some interior village, where every- 
thing is quiet, and food plenty ; her place is in the field. She follows the 
army in all its wanderings, prepares lint and provides stimulants when a 
battle is expected, and establishes temporary sick-wards in the first building 
to be had, when the battle has been fought and the wounded are being brought 
in. For four years Miss Cumming followed this army-life, and every evening, 
after the fatigues of the day, spent a few moments over her diary, recording 
the incidents that transpired around her, ' all of which she saw,' to para- 
phrase the expression of Caesar, ' and a part of which she was.' 

" The book is almost a transcript of that field-diary. It has been but 
little altered, and still bears evidences of haste in some parts, as if the 
words were written just before starting for Dalton or Atlanta, when the army 
was retreating; and of fatigue in others, as if jotted down after being all day 
ministering to the sick. But while some may complain of this crudity, if 
we may so call it, there can be no doubt that this adds very much to the 
spirit or piquancy of the book. Its main beauty is, that the words convey 
all the force and testimony of an eye-witness, or even of an actor in the 
events recorded." 



MRS. ANNIE CREIGHT LLOYD. 

ANNIE P. CREIGHT, in 1863, published several short articles 
in prose and verse in the "Gulf City Home Journal," of Mobile, 
her first appearance in print. The editor of that journal, in alluding 
to Miss Creight's contributions, remarked : 

" Miss Creight has put in our hands, with evident trepidation and timid- 
ity, several short papers. We saw some faults, but we thought that they 
could be remedied by a little encouragement, and we gave them to the pub- 
lic. We thought if we would assist the bird to learn to fly, that it would fly 
very well after a while." 

And the editor truly prophesied, for since that time Miss Creight 
has made for herself quite a to-be-envied place among " Southland 
writers." Her first novelette appeared in the "Army Argus and 
Crisis," Mobile, and was entitled " Garnet ; or, Through the Shadows 
into Light ; " which was followed by " Hagar ; or, The Lost Jewel," 
which we consider superior to any of her published novelettes. These 
novelettes have had the honor of republication in the columns of a 
Mississippi paper, since the close of the war. 

In the summer of 1867, Mrs. Lloyd was the successful competitor 
for a prize offered by the " Mobile Sunday Times " for the best 
romance ; " Pearl ; or, The Gem of the Vale," being the title of the 
successful novelette. 

Miss Creight was born in Abbeville, South Carolina : she is yet 
young in years, and with careful study and judicious pruning of her 
narratives will accomplish something worthy of herself and her coun- 
try. At an early age, Miss Creight removed to Mississippi ; was edu- 
cated in Aberdeen, where she graduated in 1859 ; deprived of parents, 
she came to Mobile, Alabama, and shared the home of an uncle ; in 
1866, she was married to William E. Lloyd, and resides in Mobile, 
occasionally writing as a recreation. 

lm 247 



MRS. E. W. BELLAMY. 

"RS. E, W. BELLAMY ("Kampa Thorpe") has not, as yet, 
JjJL accomplished a great deal in the literature of her country, but 
what she has published she has cause to be proud of. Her novel 
"Four Oaks" was published by Carleton, New York, 1867. The 
"Round Table," New York, under the impression that " Kampa 
Thorpe" was of the masculine gender, thus alludes to "Four Oaks" : 

" This is a story of every-day life, in which all the incidents are probable, 
and, what is yet more rare, the characters are all perfectly natural. A num- 
ber of men and women, differing in age though not in station, are brought 
together on terms of pleasant acquaintanceship, and there is a more liberal 
allowance than usual of intelligent men and brainless nonentities, of sensible 
women and those torments of modern society, women of an uncertain age 
on the lookout for husbands ; and although there are no diabolical villains, 
there are mischief-makers enough to occasion unpleasant complications, 
which, together with mysterious miniatures and family secrets, combine to 
sustain an interest which the events of the story would not otherwise suffice 
to keep alive. 

" The scene opens in the pleasant town of Netherford, where, after a severe 
round of introductions to the forefathers and relatives of the heroine, we are 
presented to a charming, good-heartecl, and beautiful girl, a little spoiled, 
rather self-willed, and somewhat too self-reliant, but so true and honest, so 
free from all the vices which attach to the fashionable and fast young lady 
of the present day, that we are grateful to the author who awakens our in- 
terest for a woman equally endowed with vitality, modesty, and common 
sense. There is an absence of all romance about a life passed among such 
restless and ill-assorted people as form the society of Netherford, but the 
author has refrained from giving us any exaggerated or extravagant scenes ; 
he is thoroughly consistent and natural, and his imagination has evidently 
been greatly assisted by personal observation." 

And a Southern editor and critic of experience (Major W. T. Walt- 
hall) thus reviews the book : 

" "We have subjected this volume to careful reading — a reading much more 
careful than we are in the habit of giving to any new novel. 

"We confess having commenced ' Four Oaks ' with some nervous appre- 
218 



E. W. BELLAMY. 249 

hensions — fear lest it might prove like too many books by Southern authors, 
which task the ingenuity of an indulgent reviewer to effect an awkward com- 
promise between candor and charity in the expression of his opinion. They 
have to be ' damned with faint praise/ or eased off with unmeaning plati- 
tudes. ' Four Oaks/ we are happy to say, is not one of such books. We 
have read it through with continually increasing interest, and have laid it 
down with that paradoxically pleasant regret which busy people rarely have 
the luxury of feeling in finishing a book — regret that it is ended. 

" Considering the temptations held out by the examples of some of the most 
successful novels of the day, 'Four Oaks' is to be commended almost as 
much for what it is not, as for what it is. It is not a 'sensational' story. 
There is not a battle, nor a duel, nor a ghost, nor a murder, and but one 
pistol-shot in it. [We do not object to a reasonable use of these elements 
of interest in a novel, but it is very refreshing to meet with one that can be 
just as interesting without them.] It has no violations of the letter or the 
spirit of the seventh commandment — no sentimental apologies for vice — 
no poetic idealization of acts and passions which in the honest language of 
the Scriptures are called by homely names that would be inadmissible in 
elegant fiction. Without a particle of prudery or pretension, it is imbued 
with the very atmosphere of purity — purity not inculcated, but taken for 
granted. To say that the author is a lady, ought to be sufficient to make all 
this follow as a matter of course ; but, unfortunately, some of the lady nov- 
elists of this generation have taught us a different lesson. 

" Nor does the author of ' Four Oaks ' delight in twisting and torturing 
human passions and feelings into agonies of strange attitudes and fantastic 
developments. Her characters are men and women, with loves, hates, hopes, 
fears, joys, sorrows, faults, and follies, like those of other people. 

"Neither is 'Four Oaks' a device for showing off the learning of the au- 
thor. She shows the effects of culture, but not its processes. There is, per- 
haps, rather too much botany in one of her chapters, but this is an exception 
to the general rule. 

"Again, 'Four Oaks' is neither political, polemical, nor philosophical. 
Thoroughly Southern as it is, the word ' Southern ' scarcely occurs in it, nor 
is there anything said of patriotism, or chivalry, or the sunny South, or the 
peculiar institution. Its locality is defined only by its general tone, spirit, 
and the language, manners, and usages of the people who figure in it. It 
has no theory to maintain, nor any ' mission ' to fulfil. 

"It is needless, however, to specify the negative merits of 'Four Oaks/ 
when it has so many that are positive. It is a story of every-day life. Its 
materials and its style are of the most unpretending sort. We are introduced 
in the early chapters into the society of a pleasant little circle of people in 
' the town of Netherford/ on the ' banks of the Ominihaw/ and these people 
constitute nearly all the personages of the story. The heroine is for from 
being a model of propriety. She" is full of faults and foibles, which some- 



250 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

times provoke the friendly reader and make his interest and sympathy trem- 
ble in the balance for a moment, but she is sure to carry away his heart in 
the end. Her education is lamentably imperfect when she is first intro- 
duced. She likes picnics and dancing better than books, has never read 
even ' The Lady of the Lake/ and 'The Burial of Sir John Moore' is new 
to her; but she has a heart, and an honest one, and she is witty and beautiful. 
Herein, as we think, the author again shows good sense. We have a great 
respect for plain women. They often make admirable nurses, friends, mo- 
thers, sisters, and even sweethearts and wives for those who are indifferent 
about beauty, but they do not answer for heroines of romance. Even Jane 
Eyre has to marry a blind man. But Harry Vane is not only beautiful — she 
is bewitching in every sense. We may vow that she is unworthy of being 
loved, but she wins us back in the course of the next minute, and binds us 
faster than ever. The progress of her character, and the quiet but steady 
growth of its improvement, are among the most interesting features in the 
book ; and yet there is no parade made of it. The art of the artist is admi- 
rably concealed. 

" We have never read anything more thoroughly and unaffectedly natural 
than the characters, the conversation, and incidents of this book. It exhales 
the very odor of the groves, the fields, the forests, and the ancestral homes 
of Virginia or the Carolinas ; and yet, as we have already said, neither Vir- 
ginia nor Carolina is mentioned. There are no tedious and elaborate de- 
scriptions of scenery or analyses of character : the touches that set them be- 
fore us so vividly are imperceptible. The humor of some passages is delight- 
ful. It must be a dull soul — totally insensible to mirth — that can read 
unmoved such scenes as the account of the first meeting of the Quodlibet, 
or that of Mr. Dunbar's courtship, or his prescription of ' earthworms and 
turpentine,' or some others that might be specified. 

" But it is in the love-scenes of ' Four Oaks ' that its chief charm consists. 
Trite as is the theme, it is still that which stirs most deeply the human heart, 
and has the most universal attraction for human sympathy. We have often 
seen its influences depicted with more power, but never with so much of ex- 
quisite grace, delicacy, and fidelity, as in this book. Without a particle of 
sentimentality to repel the most fastidious taste, it unites all the truth and 
tenderness of the sentimental school with the sparkle of the gayer and lighter 
sort, and touches of exquisite delicacy, which could proceed only from a 
woman's pen, and which may be appreciated, but scarcely described or ana- 
lyzed. 

" We forbear to say anything more in praise of ' Four Oaks.' What we 
have said is not said from any undue partiality, for we know the writer only 
by reputation — scarcely even by name. We are sensible, too, of some faults 
in her book. It has, to a certain degree, that fault from which scarcely any 
lady writer — perhaps none — is entirely free: the fault of diffuseness. But 
then, there is this difference : the works of most women (and perhaps of 



E. W. BELLAMY. 251 

most men too) would be improved by reducing them to one-fifth of then 
dimensions ; in the case of ' Four Oaks/ we could not possibly spare more 
than one-fifth. There is an artistic fault in the too rapid introduction of 
characters in the beginning. The mind of the reader is confused, and one 
has to look back for explanation oftener than we like in the hurry of novel- 
reading. 

" The sum of the whole matter is, that ' Four Oaks ' is the most delightful 
book that we have read for a long time. It is the very book to be read aloud 
either by the winter fireside or the summer seaside, with one congenial lis- 
tener, or a circle of such listeners, and to leave all parties more genial, more 
happy, more thankful to the Creator for his good gifts, more charitable to- 
ward his creatures. It is very rarely that we could conscientiously recom- 
mend the author of a new novel to repeat the effort, but in this case we very 
much hope that ' Four Oaks ' is only the beginning of a series. ' Kampa 
Thorpe ' has not mistaken her vocation." 

Mrs. Bellamy is a widow, and is a teacher in a seminary at Eutaw, 
Greene County, Alabama. Her essays contributed to the "Mobile 
Sunday Times" are beautiful and elegant articles, and we imagine she 
is an ardent lover of " nature and nature's God." 

1869. 



A SUMMER IDYL. 

When woodlands spread their denser screen, 
And wheat is reap'd on sunburnt plains; 

When apples blush for looking green, 
And berries ripen in the lanes; 

When bees go robbing clover-fields, 
And barefoot truants wade the brook, 

Or meath the shade the forest yields 
They seek them out some breezy nook ; 

When summer weaves her slumberous spell 
Of dreamy murmurs, lulling care, 

Till Thought lies dormant in his cell 
To watch the castles rise in air; 

What vocal rover haunts the land, 
Roaming adown the dusty walks, 



252 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Or in the stubble takes bis stand, 
And loudly of the harvest talks ? 

From sylvan coverts far and near 
A name is called from morn till night, 

And questions asked in accents clear 
About the crop of Farmer White ; 

That vague, mysterious crop of peas 
The gleaners of the feather'd gown 

Are waiting eagerly to seize 
When " Bob " shall lay his sickle down. 

Bob, Bob White! where doth he dwell? 
And wherefore do they call his name ? 

And who is he ? — can any tell ? 
Can any whisper whence he came? 

Have any seen him on the hills, 

Industrious at the dawn of day? 
Have any spied him by the rills, 

Dozing the noontide hours away? 

Perchance he is akin to Kate 

Who did the deed without a name, 

Or that poor Will whose luckless fate 
The twilight babblers oft proclaim. 

" A man of words, and not of deeds," 

He dwells in an unreal clime, 
And takes his ease in sunny meads, 

Unjostled by the march of time. 

In those fair realms beyond the stream, 
That parts the infant from the man, 

1 see this farmer in a dream, 

With kindly eye and cheek of tan ; 

A jolly wight, who loves his pipe, 

And knows the cunning speech of birds, 

But parleys o'er his peas unripe 
To teach his reapers human words. 

An echo from old Baby land, 

His name, across the vanish'd years 

By summer breezes lightly fann'd, 
Brings happy thoughts bedew'd with tears, 



E. W. BELLAM Y. 253 

What tireless rambles through the wood, 

What revels round the bubbling spring, 
By slopes whereon the stout oaks stood, 

And held the grape-vine for a swing! 

O summer days ! summer joys ! 

That come not as they came of old ; 
Their charm still lingers in the voice 

Now piping from the sunlit wold. 

Wherefore be blessings on the bird 

That warbles with such magic art; 
What time his " airy tongue " is heard, 
The past illuminates the heart! 
July, 136S. 



TRANSITION. 



BRILL ON THE HILL, 



How soon will end the Summer days ! 

Though thick and green the forest-leaves, 
Already Autumn's golden haze 
About the woods and hilly ways 

A veil of tender radiance weaves. 

Oh ! what is in the Autumn sun, 

And what is in the Autumn air, 
Makes all they shine and breathe upon, 
Ere yet the Summer days are gone, 
Look so exceeding sweet and fair ? 

E'en weeds, that through the Summer rain 

Grew wanton, and o'ertopped the flowers, ■ 
Rude children of the sunburnt plain, — ■ 
Bud out and blossom, not in vain, 
Around the Summer's faded bowers. 

For long ago the violets fled, 

The pansy closed its purple eye, 
The poppy hung its uncrowned head, 
And on the garden's grass-grown bed 
The lily laid her down to die. 

No more the roses bud and blow ; 
The few late beauties that remain 



254 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Are tossed by rough winds to and fro, 

And all their fragrant leaves laid low 

And scattered by the latter rain. 

Like some old limner's quaint design 
The sunlight's checkered play doth seem, 

And through the clusters on the vine, 

As through a goblet filled with wine, 
Soft, shimmering sparkles gleam. 

The red-cheeked apples thickly grow 

About the orchard's leafy mass, 
But when they hear the tempest blow, 
Through twisted boughs they sliding go 

And hide within the tangled grass. 

No more the partridge's whistle rings ; 

The dove her plaintive cry has ceased, — 
From tree to tree, on restless wings, 
The mock-bird flits, but never sings : 

The west wind rocks an empty nest. 

All harmonies of Summer fail I 

The vaulting insects cease to sport ; 
The songs of bees alone prevail, 
The winged traffickers that sail 

From flowery port to port. 

Upon the hills and in the fields 

A few pale flowers begin to blow ; 
A few pale buds the garden yields, 
A few pale blooms the hedge-row shields ; 

Summer consents not yet to go. 

yellow leaf amid the green ! 

Sad presage of the coming fall, 
Soon where your withered tent is seen 
Shall Autumn's gorgeous banners screen 

The incipient ruin over all ! 

Though sadly to ourselves we say, 
" The summer days will soon be o'er," 

Yet who may tell the very day 

Whereon the Summer went away, 
Though closely watching evermore? 



MARY A. CRUSE. 255 

With sailing clouds the heavens teem, 

That beckon like impatient guides, 
And like the gliding of a stream, 
Like thoughts that mingle in a dream, 

The Summer into Autumn glides. 

She goes ! and leaves the woods forlorn ; 

For grief the birds refuse to sing ; 
Bare lie the fields that laughed with corn ; 
But of each garnered grain is born 

The certain promise of the Soring. 



MISS MARY A. CRUSE. 

MISS CRUSE is a native of Huntsville, Alabama, one of the most 
beautiful and hospitable little cities of the " Southland." Charles 
Lanman, in one of his volumes, thus alludes to this little city: 

" It occupies an elevated position, and is hemmed in with high hills, from the 

summit of which it presents an uncommonly picturesque appearance 

It is supplied with the best of water from a mammoth spring, which gushes 
from a rock in the centre of the town ; and this, with the array of from one 
to two hundred saddle-horses which are daily collected around the county 
court-house square, ought to be mentioned as among the features of the 
place. But on becoming acquainted with the people of Huntsville, the 
stranger will find that they are the leading character." 

This was an ante-bellum view, yet in this latter particular the people 
are not changed. The Cruse family are from Maryland, and one that 
would take position anywhere for their refinement and peculiar spright- 
liness of intellect. Sam Cruse, as he was universally termed, Miss 
Mary Anne's father, was a man of great probity and manliness of 
character, one of the first citizens of Huntsville. In the person of 
Mr. William Cruse, an odd old-bachelor uncle, the town of Huntsville 
will long remember an unfailing fund of w-itticisms and quaint pecu- 
liarities which will render his memory delightful. " Billy Cruse " was 
a curiosity, an oddity, a genius, but leaving his fame, however, entirely 
to tradition. 



256 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Miss Cruse, even at school, began to distinguish herself, by the stu 
diousness of her deportment and the rapidity with which she acquired 
her tasks. Even then the germ of the future authoress might be dis- 
covered. She frequently indulged in poetic flights when very young, 
in which the partial eye of friendship found buds of future promise, 
though I believe she has not in maturer years given any of her poetry 
publicity. She is highly cultivated and a fine classical scholar. She 
is a woman of warm friendships, rather secluded, however, in her tastes ; 
lavishing her sentiments upon a choice few, of great uprightness and 
enthusiasm of character. It was in part through her exertion and 
earnest work in the cause that the Sunday-school and Church of the 
Nativity, at Huntsville, have increased in% numbers and usefulness. 
Her books, entitled " The Little Episcopalian," and " Bessie Melville," 
a sequel to the former, show the beauties of religion, are pleasingly 
written, and were and are very popular among Sabbath-school scholars 
and children of a larger growth. The writer acknowledges to have 
read those volumes with pleasure and profit not many years ago. 
These tales were written more especially for the Sabbath-school of the 
Church of the Nativity. 

During the " war," when Huntsville was occupied by Federal troops, 
Mr. Sam Cruse was one of the old citizens who was sent to " Dixie " 
on very short notice, because he loved his Southern country too well 
to declare himself against it. We believe Miss Crus6 accompanied 
him, and they were "refugees " for many months. 

Since the close of the war, (1866,) Miss Cruse has published her 
most ambitious work, " Cameron Hall : A Story of the Civil War." 

" A story," the author modestly tells the reader, " which was completed 
before the termination of the war, the result of which, so different from our 
anticipations, seemed at first to necessitate a change, or at least a modifica- 
tion of many of the opinions and hopes confidently expressed by some of 
the characters. Upon reflection, however, it was decided to leave it as it is ; 
a truthful picture, as it is believed to be, not only of the scenes and events 
which occurred immediately around the author's home, but also of the inner 
thoughts and feelings, the hopes and expectations, in a word, the animus of 
the Southern heart." 

And "Cameron Hall," which we are pleased to say was a success, 
is, as the author says, " a work belonging rather to truth than to fie- 



MARY A. CRUSE. 257 

tion, — a claim which will be acknowledged by thousands of hearts in 
our 'Southland.'" 

"Cameron Hall" would be improved by judicious pruning: there 
is too much of it — yet it is so pure and fresh. To read it after reading 
a sensation novel, is like getting up early in the morning : it was very 
hard to start, and awful dull and sleepy to dress in the shuttered, dark 
room ; but once up and out, how fresh and pure and sweet ! There 
is something so earnest and unsullied in it. 

Miss Cruse, like all Southern women, was a loser by the war ; but 
she wasted no time in idly repining, and is teaching the " young idea 
how to shoot" in her pleasant home at the foot of "Monte Sano." 
And she is appreciated and loved, quietly going on the even tenor of 
her way. 



THE WAKING OF THE BLIND GIEL BY THE TONES OF THE 
GRAND ORGAN. 

" Have you ever been to Switzerland, Charles ? " asked Uncle John. 

" No, sir." 

" Then it will be worth while for you to go with us. I will tell you, 
Charles, and would have told you before ; but I don't want Agnes to know 
what she is going for, since surprise will add to her pleasure. In the quiet 
old town of Fribourg there is a cathedral containing an organ which has 
but one superior in Europe, and an organist whose marvellous execution is 
quite as wonderful. It is the only pleasure that I know on the Continent 
that can be enjoyed by the blind as much as by those who can see ; and I 
am especially anxious that the child, who has been disappointed in being 
able to recover her sight, should at least enjoy that. Were it not for this, I 
would go home in the next steamer." 

They reached Fribourg early in the afternoon, and Uncle John was 
rejoiced that they had at last arrived at their destination, and he determined 
to remain there until Agnes should be thoroughly rested. 

As they drove rapidly through the streets, Charles saw enough to excite 
his curiosity, and make him anxious to study in detail the features of this 
singular-looking place. Its situation is most romantic, the town being 
divided by immense ravines, spanned by bridges, two of which are suspen- 
sion bridges, the only link to bind this quaint old town to the present. 
Everything else seems to belong to the far-distant past, and is black with 
the smoke, and dust, and mould of age. Upon one of these bridges Charles 
33 



258 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

stood, and looked with wonder into the ravine below, where men looked 
almost as small as children. The bridge is said to be as high above the 
street underneath it as the precipice of Niagara, and it certainly seemed to 
our traveller to be a dizzy height. He was so absorbed that the gathering 
clouds failed to attract his attention, when all at once he was aroused by the 
large, heavy drops of rain. The storm came as suddenly and violently as 
only it can come in mountain countries, and by the time he reached the 
hotel it was pouring in torrents, with severe thunder and lightning. 

Pie found Agnes asleep upon the sofa, and Uncle John watching her 
anxiously. 

" I am uneasy about her, Charles," he said. " She was so bright and well 
at Chamouni, I thought that the Swiss air was going to work wonders for 
her ; but to-day she has been more languid than I have seen her since she 
left home." 

" That is nothing. The child is tired, and a few days' rest will make her 
as strong as ever." 

" Everything is adverse to my plans to-night, Charles," said Uncle John, 
going to the window, and looking out at the pouring rain and the flooded 
streets. "The rain and her indisposition combine to upset a favorite project 
of mine." 

" What is that, sir ? " 

" It is an old man's whim, which I know will excite a smile, even if it 
does not awaken a doubt with regard to my sanity. For days I have been 
indulging a pleasant sort of dream about taking her asleep to the cathedral, 
and having her awakened by that wonderful organ-music. It would be such 
a delightful surprise to the child ! You don't know how much I dislike to 
give up the idea." 

"The plan is rather impracticable, sir," answered Charles, smiling, "espe- 
cially on such a night as this." 

" Her condition, Charles, alone renders it impracticable. If I were cer- 
tain that she was only tired, and not sick, I would not hesitate to try it, for 
I know that I could protect her from the rain." 

"Why not wait until to-morrow night, as we are to stay here some days? " 

" Because the organist will not play again, either to-morrow or the next 
night. He is a professor of music in Berne, and only comes here on certain 
nights in the week to play for the benefit of travellers, for many lovers of 
music come to Fribourg especially to hear its wonderful performance. 
Besides, I want Agnes to hear the music before she knows what I brought 
her here for." 

" How is she to get to the cathedral ? " 

" In my arms." 

The rain had temporarily ceased, and Charles said if they would go at 
once they could perhaps reach the cathedral before it rained again. 



MARY A. CRUSE. 259 

It was very dark when they went into the street, and the feeble light of 
the lantern was almost quenched in the surrounding gloom. Uncle John 
carried Agnes with gentleness and dexterity, that showed he knew how to 
take care of her. When they reached the cathedral, they found the doors 
not yet opened, and they were compelled to stand and wait. As one and 
another were added to the waiting group, they looked with wonder and curi- 
osity upon the foreigner with his singular burden ; but, unconscious that he 
was the object of interest or remark, he leaned against the heavily carved 
portal, and in his anxiety to keep Agnes from being awakened, he forgot all 
else. Presently the crowd gave way to a man who approached with a lan- 
tern, and motioning Uncle John aside, he swung open the heavy doors. All 
was black darkness within, except that in the dim distance Uncle John and 
Charles saw one feeble ray, which they followed, until they found it was the 
sexton's lantern, by the light of which he was seating persons in the other 
end of the church. By degrees, their eyes became accustomed to the dark- 
ness, and looking around and above them, where two or three glimmering 
lights betrayed the position of the organ, they selected a seat at a proper 
distance. 

It was a strange audience that was assembled in the Fribourg Cathedral 
on that stormy night — men and women, and one blind child ; some from a 
distant continent beyond the sea; from Britannia's Isle; and others who 
were born and reared in the same old town which had singularly enough 
produced the sweetest of organs and the most gifted of musicians. There 
they all sat in the stillness and darkness of midnight. Scarcely a whisper 
was heard, and a reverent silence pervaded the assembly. 

Presently the deep, trembling notes of the organ broke the stillness, and 
deeper, and louder, and more tremulous they grew, until it was difficult to 
believe that the rushing wind, of which it was so wonderful an imitation, 
was not sweeping wildly through the cathedral aisles. Uncle John felt a 
thrill pass through Agnes's frame as she sprang up and called aloud : 

"Uncle John!" 

He clasped her hand tightly, and whispered : 

"Here I am, Agnes." 

She was satisfied. She knew not, cared not where she was, or how she had 
come there ; she knew that Uncle John was with her, and that she was lis- 
tening to her own dear organ, and she was happy. 

The strange performance went on. Thunder, lightning, wind, and storm 
exhausted themselves in wild unearthly music, and then died away in a strain 
so sweet and low that it might almost have been mistaken for an angel's whis- 
per. Quicker and quicker grew the throb of the childish heart, and tighter 
was the grasp with which she clung to Uncle John, but she did not speak. 
It was a double spell that bound him, for he heard the music through Agnes's 
ears and felt it through her soul. Sometimes its crushing power made the 
stone walls tremble, and then gradually the strain wandered farther and 



260 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

farther away, until all that was left was a soft, sweet echo, so pure and so 
distant that it might have been awakened in the snowy bosom of the far- 
away Mont Blanc. 

At length there was a long pause : artist and instrument seemed alike to 
have exhausted their wealth of harmony. Uncle John's hand had grasped 
Agnes's shawl, when there stole through the gloom such a strain of heavenly 
sweetness that his outstretched arm was arrested, and though he was not un- 
familiar with this strange music, still he listened in breathless wonder, as he 
had done the first time that he ever heard it. 

Sweeter than the softest flute it floated through the air, and presently 
another strain was interwoven with it — a low, subdued, liquid tone of the 
human voice, that blended with each organ-note the most exquisite harmony. 
It did not strike the ear ; the listener knew not that it reached the heart 
through the medium of a bodily organ ; it seemed to melt and flow at once 
into the very soul. 

Agnes was very still ; she clung closely to Uncle John, and scarcely dared 
to breathe. 

At length it was all over ; the last note died away, and they waited, but 
in vain, for another awakening. Presently a soft whisper said : 

" Uncle John, come close." 

He leaned down, and she asked, softly : 

" Uncle John, is it heaven ? " 

He did not reply, but the tears sprang to his eyes — tears of pleasure at the 
thought that he should have given her so much happiness. 

The audience quietly dispersed. The storm was over ; the elements had 
ceased their strife, as if to listen, and the spirit of sweet peace had been 
wafted upon the wings of that music until it seemed to rest upon earth, and 
air, and sky. 



LILIAN KOZELL MESSENGER. 

LILIAN T. ROZELL was born in Kentucky; her parents were 
Virginians, and were both fond of Poetry and Music. Hence it is 
not difficult to conjecture whence the daughter's genius, for at the 
parent fount her young soul quaffed. Her love of nature, of the 
beautiful, the grand and weird, was manifested at an age when most 
children think of toys and sweets. When a little child, she delighted 
in oratory, in climbing some elevation and imitating speakers she had 
heard, in either prose or verse ; and when not roaming the shades of 
moss-haunted woody places, she loved to fly a kite and to shoot a bow 
and arrow. From these early years she was a poet, for of all features 
of nature's glory, the clouds always furnished her more exquisite en- 
joyment ; and the study of astronomy and natural philosophy dispelled 
so many fond illusions concerning the mystery of the clouds, that she 
almost regretted knowledge, and looked back on ignorance then as 
bliss. 

All of Miss Rozell's family are of a melancholy, sensitive, musical 
temperament ; and she is not sanguine, and is often and suddenly the 
victim of most depressing melancholy : in this particular she is said 
to be completely Byronic, if not his counterpart in genius. 

Considering that Miss Rozell has never had the aid of a large 
library, or the advantages to be derived from literary groups, but 
worked in silent gloom and isolation without help or practical aid, 
her verse cannot be expected to be of a very hopeful strain. 

The death of her father caused a change in her prospects, inasmuch 
as it was the reason for the shortening of her school-days ; but she 
expects to study all her lifetime — not always to sing her lays like the 
mountain streams, but aim to mount higher and higher. 

It was after her father's death, when everything seemed dark indeed 
around the young girl, that she wrote her first verses, and the subject 
was " Night" She was in her sixteenth year when the first publicity 
was made of her poems. Colonel M. C. Gallaway was her " Fidus 
Achates." That true-hearted gentleman was the first to offer the 
young poetess and orphan a sympathetic hand. Her maiden effusions 

261 



262 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

appeared in the "Memphis Avalanche," under the nom deplume of 
" Zena Clifton." 

Miss Rozell was married in her seventeenth year to Mr. Messenger, 
editor of a newspaper at Tuscumbia, North Alabama — a man of 
strong, clear understanding, blameless as a man and as a politician. 
He died in 1865, four years after their marriage, leaving his young 
widow and one son. 

During the war, when the Federal troops plundered Tuscumbia, 
they took a journal of manuscripts, principally lyrics, belonging to 
Mrs. Messenger. General Dodge tried to recover it, but did not succeed. 

Mrs. Messenger has contributed many beautiful poems to the 
" Louisville Journal," Memphis papers, and " New York Home Jour- 
nal." Her most ambitious poems are lengthy, narrative poems, yet 
unpublished, One of these poems -purports to be an epic, and has for 
its subject " Columbus the Discoverer." The theme of a second is 
" Charlotte Corday ; " and " Penelope, the Wife of Ulysses," is the 
subject of a third. 

Mrs. Messenger is a very sweet and earnest poet ; and I verily 
believe, had she been in a Northern literary clique, with all the 
advantages to be derived therefrom, she would now be a particular 
star in the firmament of poesy. 

She is yet in her youth; and, with a desire to become a worthy con- 
tributor to her country's literature, to be recognized as a devout 
worshipper in the sacred temple of the Muses, she must succeed. Says 
she : " If I can aid in soothing any hearts, or help to inspire noble 
ambitious souls, it will be a sweet reward." 

Mrs. Messenger possesses good musical talents, and has fine talent 
for landscape painting. " Next to being a great poet, I should love to 
be a glorious painter," says she. 

Mrs. Messenger's home is in Tuscumbia, a small town in the north- 
ern part of Alabama. 

1869. 

THE OLD WHAEF. 

AT PINE BLUFF, ARK. 

Sad, broken, and scarred, with a careworn look, 
It is never a place that a fay might haunt, 

This brown old wharf, where the murky waves 
Forever in idle monotone chaunt 



LILIAN EOZELL M ESSEN GEE. 263 

A story which, seems but nothing sometimes, 
Save a babble of foolish and quaint old rhymes ; 
Like the broken fragments of winds that fell 
With sweet spring, swept to her flowery dell, 

Or yet to their deep-toned caves, 
Whose soft blue gloom hath defied the sun, 
But the love-warm rays of the moonlight won. 

Sad, broken, and scarred, with its careworn look — 

And no one thinks it can ever be more 
Than the brown old wharf by the idle waves, 

With hurrying cloudlets passing o'er ; 
But I often think if these could speak, 
How its mummied secrets would crumbling break, 
And tell of the thousand steps that passed, 
(In a day near by, in a far-off day, 
Which may never return, or which may be the last,) 

And whisper of farewells again, 
That divided true hearts, and severed true hands, 
When over the South and its sweet summer-lands 
Hung the fiery Cross of Pain. 

On the grim, gory mount of war it gleamed, 

And woman, the weeper, was mourning there, 

One farewell cleaving brave hearts and brave hands, 

And fate seemed bound in the bands of prayer — 

But only seemed ; and the same waves tell, 

By the old wharf brown, whatever befell, 

When their barks drew near, and others sailed out, 

Far off in the far-away ! 
Eyes there are, yet gazing through time's dim gray, 
That is flecked with the gold of that dawning day. 

Four times and three, at the old wharf brown, 

With a cloven heart have I said good-bye, 
And my secret left, and dreamed it the last, 

While the slow sad waves passed on with a sigh. 
But once they bore off a form enshrined 
In death's dim dusk ; and once they chimed 

To a marriage-bell, on a blue June-day ; 

That, too, passed out in the far-away. 
And I sometimes fear that a welcome more 
Will never come back from the brown old shore, 
Though an army with banners of joy stood there, 
Where the phantoms of hundred farewells are. 



SARAH E. PECK. 

MRS. PECK has, since the close of the war, contributed many 
interesting sketches to the literary journals of the South; and 
principally excelled in sketches for children — writing like a good, 
true mother. 

Sarah Elizabeth Peck is a native of Morgan County, Alabama. 

She was educated principally at Columbia, Tennessee. She was 
eminently successful in drawing and painting, as well as in tastefully 
modelling figures in wax. Several .years previous to the war, while 
in wretched health, confined to her room most of the time, she amused 
the tedium of her confinement by making extracts from her readings. 
These she arranged alphabetically under different heads. The title 
was, "A Dictionary of Similes, Figures, Images, Metaphors, etc." 
She has been engaged for some time in preparing this work for the 
press. A friend of this lady, alluding to this work, says: 

" This is truly an eclectic work. It is too large for a bouquet ; shall I say 
that it is a garden into whose rich soil she has transplanted the choicest 
cuttings of the most celebrated rosaries ? " 

Mrs. Peck's home is near Trinity Station, on the Memphis and 
Charleston Railroad. She proposes to publish a novel, originally ap- 
pearing in "Burke's Weekly for Boys and Girls." 

1869. 

264 



JULIA L. KEYES 

IS the eldest daughter of Prof. N. M. Hentz and Mrs. Caroline Lee 
Hentz, and was born at Chapel Hill, N. C, in the year 1829. At 
the time of her birth, her father filled the chair of modern languages 
in the University of North Carolina, but, while Julia was yet an in- 
fant, he resigned his professorship and removed to Cincinnati. He did 
not, however, remain here long, but finally located in Florence, Ala., 
and in connection with Mrs. Hentz, opened a school for young ladies. 
It was called Locust Dell Academy, and soon became one of the most 
popular institutions in the South. Locust Dell ! ah ! it is music to 
the ear of many matrons throughout the South. 

It was at Locust Dell that the larger portion of Julia's childhood 
was spent. She was an artless, happy little girl, beloved by her asso-. 
ciates, and admired by all who knew her for the simplicity of her na- 
ture. With such associations, and with such a mother, it is not singu- 
lar that she should, even at an early age, have imbibed a literary 
taste; and yet whatever distinction she may have attained has been done 
without the slightest expectation that her name would be mentioned 
among the female writers of the South. No such ambition has ever 
moved her heart and pen. From Florence, her parents removed to 
Tuscaloosa, Ala., in the year 1842, and took charge of the Female 
Institute at that place. Tuscaloosa was then the capital of the State, 
besides being the seat of the University. The period during which 
her parents resided there were days of pleasantness to Julia. They 
were perhaps the very happiest of her girlhood. Beloved and admired 
by all, with scarcely a care to disturb her peace, her young imagination 
painted the future with hues even brighter and more beautiful than 
those that then adorned her sky, for a vision of the Land of Flowers 
was ever in her heart. She knew that an abode would be prepared 
for her in that sunnier clime, for there was one, the object of her own 
and her parents' choice, who would there make himself a home. 

From Tuscaloosa, Professor Hentz, in 1846, removed to Tuskegee, 
Ala., where, in the same year, Julia was united to Dr. J. "W. Keyes, 
to whom for several years her hand and heart had been plighted. 
34 205 



266 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Soon after, she bade adieu to parents and home, and went with her 
husband to Florida, at that time the place of his residence. It was 
here, in the early years of her marriage, amid the mournful music of 
the pines and the bright flowers of the far South, she wrote some of 
her sweetest poems. She wrote, as we have already intimated, not for 
gain or glory, but from that poetic impulse of which all true poetry is 
born. It was, we believe, in the third or fourth year of her marriage 
she composed those beautiful lines, " To My Absent Husband." We 
append a few stanzas : 

" Why does my spirit now so oft 

In fancy backward rove? 
As beautiful in mist appears 

That golden year of love. 
Why do I love to live again 

My first year's wedded life ? 
Oh ! I was then so young and glad — 

A childlike, happy wife. 

" Swiftly these few short years have fled, 

And I am happy yet ; 
But oh ! those bright and sunny days 

My heart will not forget. 
No care had I to make me look 

Beyond those hours of bliss, 
No griefs that only mothers have, 

No moments such as this. 

"And these dear little ones, that bind 

My heart so near to earth, 
So twine around me that I bless 

The hour that gave them birth. 
And then, my husband, thou hast been 

Kind, gentle, true to me, 
And these bright living links have drawn 

Me nearer unto. thee. 

"This happiness is sweet and pure; 

But then so much of pain 
Is mingled with our love and joy 

In this domestic chain, 
That I am wont to wander 

To those bright sunny hours 
When life was joyous, and my path 

Was ever strewn with flowers. 



JULIA L. KEYES. 267 

"But think not that I would again 

My girlhood's hours recall ; 
I 'd rather bear life's ills with thee 

Than to be freed from all, 
And be without thy loving care, 

Thy fond, protecting arm, 
Thine ever constant, anxious wish 
• To shelter me from harm." 

A few years passed quietly away, and she who had been the happy, 
hopeful girl was now a matron, immersed in the cares of a household, 
and that tender solicitude which never sleeps in a mother's breast was 
hers; and yet in that land where the birds sing and the flowers bloom 
always, and where the stars from the deep azure sky seem to look so 
dimly and sadly over the stillness of earth, and where, too, the sound 
of the sighing pines and surf-beaten shores is heard, her feelings would 
oft constrain her to give expression to them in verse. Few, however, 
of the many poems written at that period of her life have ever been 
given to the public. 

The year of 1856 was an eventful one, and one, too, of great sorrow 
to Mrs. Keyes ; for in that year she lost her gifted mother. She, too, 
had wandered to this beautiful land ; for the remaining members of 
the family followed soon after Julia's marriage. In one of those rare 
and fatal spells of cold which cut down the orange and lime trees, 
Mrs. Hentz was attacked with pneumonia — her last illness. Nor 
was this Mrs. Keyes's only bereavement. In the latter part of the 
same year her father, who for several years had been in feeble health, 
died, and on the same day a beautiful and interesting little boy of 
five years, to whom her heart most tenderly clung. And yet she bore 
all these heavy afflictions in the spirit of meekness and humble reli- 
ance upon the goodness of Him who " doeth all things well." 

In the year 1857, Dr. Keyes removed to Montgomery, Ala., where 
he had his home until the close of the war. During her residence in 
this city of the South, so " lovely for its situation," her time was 
greatly occupied in household affairs ; yet some of her best poems 
were written in the midst of these domestic cares. The writer of this 
sketch, who was an inmate of her home, has often wondered at her 
economy of time. After doing a large. amount of sewing in the day, 
she would sometimes give us a poem, composed while plying the 
needle, and written down at odd moments. 



268 LIVING FEMALE' WE ITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

We may here remark that her poetical talent would probably never 
have been known beyond the home circle, had not her husband drawn 
from her portfolio her fugitive pieces and given them to the public, he 
being, perhaps, her greatest admirer. This, as we may suppose, has 
given her a stimulus, without which her pen would remain idle. 

In 1859, she obtained the prize for the best poem under sixty lines 

of the "Southern Field and Fireside." The poem is called "A Dream 

of Locust Dell," and is considered the most touchingly beautiful of 

-i all her published productions. Certainly, few can read it without 

I being touched by its beauty and pathos. 

During the " war," Doctor Keyes was absent from home — an offi- 
cer in the army — and Mrs. Keyes was left with all the cares of a 
large family upon her; and she patiently and cheerfully bore up under 
all her burdens, for her soul was strengthened and nerved by that 
holy and active patriotism which clothed with such undying glory our 
" women of the South." 

The fate of war was adverse to the cause he advocated, and Dr. 
Keyes felt that the South, under the rule of its conquerors, was no 
home for his family, and he went to Brazil, where he resided for three 
years. Not satisfied with the educational advantages for a large 
family of children, he returned to Montgomery in 1870. 

1870. • G. P. K. 



A DEEAM OF LOCUST DELL. 

What spell of enchantment is that which enthralls me 
When winding the mystical mazes of dreams? 

What spirit is that which alluringly calls me, 
And leads me away over mountain and streams ? 

I see from afar a rich landscape unfolding — 
A beautiful grove — a lake sleeping below — 

'T is my own Locust Dell once more I 'm beholding, 
As on wings of the zephyr there floating I go. 

I have reached it again, and the misty reflection 

Of childhood p'erpowers me with pleasure and pain; 

These musings — they seem but a dim recollection 
Of something I 've lost that I cannot regain. 

I wander along in this lethean existence ; 

I weep, and my tears fall like dew on the grass ; 



JULIA L. KEYES. 269 

I see a white mansion, not now in the distance ; 
I touch my own gate-latch, and entering I pass. 

So lightly and cautiously treading, I enter 

The hall where my voice in its infancy rung ; 
I pause for a moment when reaching the centre, 

And list for the sound of some welcoming tongue. 

The quivering moonbeams and shadows are falling 

Like ghostly illusions along the dark floor : 
Why suddenly thus is that vision appalling ? 

Why throbs my wild heart as it ne'er throbbed before? 

To open the chambers I now am unwilling ; 

No farther the mansion I wish to explore ; 
I feel a strange dampness the atmosphere filling — 

The cold wind is rushing within the hall-door. 

Oh! where are the loved ones? Oh! where have they wandered? 

Why stands the dear homestead thus bared to the blast ? 
'T was thus, while weak, fainting with anguish, I pondered, 

That memory appeared with a scroll of the past. 

The spirit of slumber still did not forsake me — 

Again, as on wings of the zephyr, I flew ; 
The cool, vap'rous breath of the morn did not wake me ; 

I threaded the labyrinth of dreaming anew. 

I saw by a clear gushing fountain a flower — 

On its bosom a drop of the crystalline spray ; 
I stooped, but the spell of some magical power 

Prevented my taking the blossom away. 

I watched the bright pearl-drop ; it slowly distended — 
The blush of the rose seemed the hue of the sky ; 

I saw a new world in the ether suspended — 
Its groves and its lakes I could faintly espy. 

Amid clustering trees a white mansion was gleaming — 

Two wandered together beneath the soft shade ; 
The pearl-drop has fallen — I wake from my dreaming 

To see the long shadows the sunbeams have made. 

Oh ! I know 't is the absent I 've seen in my sleeping ! 

Unto mansions our Saviour prepared they are gone ; 
Love's vigilance still o'er their child they are keeping ; 

When I pass the dark valley I '11 not be alone. 



AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 

SOME critics of the sterner sex profess to believe that female writ- 
ers skim over the surface of thought ; jump at conclusions without 
pausing to note the various steps or arguments by which those conclu- 
sions were attained ; exercise imagination more than reason ; and ad- 
dress themselves to the emotions rather than the intellect. That this 
is true in some instances cannot be denied, but it is far from beino- 
universal. Examples to the contrary cluster around us " thick as 
leaves at Vallambrosa," among whom the subject of this sketch stands 
foremost. But even admitting the truth of the above proposition for 
the sake of argument, are we not creatures of feeling as well as of 
thought, and are the affections less important in the economy of nature 
than the intellect? Do not our spirits crave the beautiful as well as 
the useful ? What would the world gain by turning its flowers into 
forest-oaks, or its sweet green hills into impregnable mountains? 

I would refer all who imagine that women are incapable of deep 
metaphysical research and close logical reasoning, to the writings of 
Miss Evans, who, in grappling with infidelity — the hydra-monster 
of the present age — has placed herself among the first in point of 
polemic ability and literary acumen, and justly merits the title of 
the De Stael of the South. Like the author of "Corinne," she ap- 
proaches a subject with a fearless, independent spirit, and gives it the 
whole energies of her mind. 

Augusta J. Evans is the eldest child of the late M. R. Evans, for- 
merly a merchant of Mobile; and connected on her mother's side 
with the Howards, a prominent family of Georgia. She was born 
near Columbus, Georgia, but while she was yet a child, her parents 
moved to Texas. The subsequent year they divided between Galves- 
ton and Houston, and early in 1847 removed to the then frontier 
town of San Antonio. The Mexican war was just then at its height, 
and this was a place of " rendezvous" for the soldiers sent out to rein- 
force General Taylor. Here, between the lawlessness of the soldiery 
and the mixed character of the inhabitants, society was completely 
disorganized. There were no schools worthy of the name, and the 
270 



AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 271 

education of the little Augusta was conducted entirety by her mother, 
a lady of great moral and intellectual worth. Like Madame Le Vert 
and Mrs. Mary E. Bryan, Miss Evans owes everything to her mother, 
and is withal a bright example of the efficiency of home culture. 

Amid the wild, uncultivated scenes around San Antonio, with 
scarcely a companion but her mother, (for her brothers were some 
years younger than herself,) she imbibed that strong, free spirit which 
breathes through all her works. Here she delighted to ramble about 
the crumbling walls of the Alamo, with her hand clasped in her 
mother's ; while nature's grand and gloomy solitude, and the dark and 
bloody tragedy which had so recently been enacted in and around 
those walls, stirred up the latent enthusiasm of her precocious young 
soul. There she first dreamed of authorship. She longed to describe 
the wide-spread Alameda, and tell of the treachery and cruelty that 
marked the fall of the Alamo and the brave men who perished in that fall. 
/After a residence of two years in San Antonio, Mr. Evans and 
family removed to Alabama, and settled in Mobile, where they have 
resided ever since. There Miss Augusta entered school, but her health 
failing from the confinement, she returned to her first alma mater, 
her much revered and excellent mother. 

At the age of seventeen she wrote " Inez : A Tale of the Alamo," 
designed to show T the errors and abuses of Papacy as revealed to her in 
San Antonio, and to embody the principal features of the Texan war 
of independence. " Inez " was published anonymously in 1855, by 
Harpers, New York : while hardly a " success," it was not a failure. 
Since Miss Evans has become famous, a New York firm has published 
" Inez " without her consent — at least, the " copyright " had, we believe, 
passed from her control. For several years after the publication" of 
" Inez," she wrote nothing, except a few book-notices for the papers. 
And consequently great was the surprise when " Beulah " appeared, 
creating a sensation throughout the country. It was published in 1859, 
by Derby & Jackson, New York. This book immortalized Miss 
Evans's name, a book much abused by certain critics, and much ad- 
mired and read by everybody else. Its merit is abundantly shown in 
the fact that, coming from an unknown girl of twenty-three, it ran 
through editions of twenty-one thousand copies in little over a year.* 
Its great popularity is to be attributed, in some degree, to the original- 

* Since the publication of " Macaria" and " St. Elmo," there has been a great dcmauil 
for ''Beulah/' and even " Inez." 



272 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

ity of its principal characters. • Beulah Benton is not exactly like any 
girl who ever lived ; and yet when we remember the bitter sufferings 
of her early life, her subsequent opportunities for mental culture, her 
genius, and the seclusion in which she lived, her character is perfectly 
natural. She is not as gentle, amiable, and loving as we could wish 
her to be; and the possession of some of those "amiable weaknesses" 
so charming in pretty women would make her much more lovable ; 
but if this were the case, the book would be without those strong pecu- 
liarities which are its most attractive features. Had Beulah's mind been 
less imbittered by early wrongs, she might not have struggled with 
those doubts which constitute the groundwork of the book ; she most 
probably would never have groped through the labyrinth of infidelity, 
and learned by experience that the weary soul can find no rest but in 
the religion of the Bible. 

Miss Evans's home is in Summerville, about three miles from the 
city of Mobile, on one of the city railways. " There is nothing dreamy 
or eccentric about her. She is a healthy, practical, straightforward, 
Christian woman." She is a member of the Methodist Church, and 
we believe is the leader of the choir in the St. Francis Street church 
of Mobile. Dr. Jerome Cochran, of Mobile, says : 

" Her most remarkable characteristics seem to me to be an enthusiasm, at 
the same time simple and childlike, and large and generous to a degree not 
very common among women ; and a resolute, energetic will, that will not 
allow her to swerve from any enterprise she has once deliberately undertaken. 
She has an immense capacity for work. Her genius is the same triumphant 
faculty that has made so many people famous in this world's history — the 
genius of labor. Her fluency of speech is sometimes a matter of legitimate 
astonishment ; and yet, I believe, she does not compose very rapidly. She 
copies her manuscript with a great deal of care, in very clear, regular, legi- 
ble chirography, with hardly a blot or an interlineation on hundreds of 
pages. She is a very womanly woman, and is an unwavering opponent of 
all the new-fangled doctrines that would lead the sex to invade the time- 
honored prerogatives of masculine humanity. She has her faults and her 
weaknesses, no doubt ; else she would not be human. But she is a genuine 
Avoman, and no counterfeit imitation of one — a woman full of generous feel- 
ing and high aspirations, and who is most highly esteemed by those who 
know her best." 

During the days of the Confederacy, Miss Evans was devoted to the 
cause of the South and to the soldiers. An encampment a short dis- 
tance from her residence was entitled, in her honor, " Camp Beulah." 



AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 273 

Here she was a constant visitor. "While the soldiers lived, one bright 
spirit never forsook them ; when they died, her eloquent tongue gave 
them counsel and comfort." It was a rare treat to pass the evening 
at Miss Evans's home ; and her parlors and piazza never lacked for 
guests highly entertained by her conversation and that of her sisters. 

It became a "military necessity" to destroy the beautiful trees 
about Summerville, as it was expected that there might be fighting in 
that direction, and it was thought advisable for Mr. Evans's family to 
remove to the city. Mobile was crowded with people, and house-room 
was in demand, and they fixed up the second and third floors of their 
father's store, fronting the river, and for several months occupied the 
same in a kind of " camping-out style." In the popular acceptation 
of the term, Miss Evans is not a has bleu; for, as some one humorously 
remarked, " like the girls in the history of ' Sergeant Dale,' she sings 
psalms and darns stockings equally well." 

In 1864, West & Johnston, Kichmond, published " Macaria ; or, 
Altars of Sacrifice." The motto of which was, " We have all to be 
laid upon an altar; we have all, as it were, to be subjected to the 
action of fire." By many persons this is considered Miss Evans's best 
book. No man or woman ever had such a subject as that, or ever 
will have again. 

J. K. Randall, the poet, author of "Maryland, my Maryland," re- 
viewed "Macaria" in a Georgia paper as follows: 

" In ' Macaria/ the authoress of ' Beulah ' has ventured on a dangerous ex- 
periment. She has endeavored to write a story of American life — our hard, 
bare, prosaic, unnovelistic American life — in an ultra classic and super-eru- 
dite style, and has failed. It was necessary from the very nature of things 
that she must have failed — but has at least done as well as any, where none 
could fully succeed. The narration of life in the ]Sfew World is not to be 
written in Grsecisms, or told by all the recondite philosophizing of science. 
We are neither a classic nor a profound people, and any attempt to portray 
us by a style appropriate to such, must strike us with as painful incongruity 
as those French melodramas where Hannibal wears red-heeled shoes and 
Cato harangues in a roquelaire and a tie-wig. The characters in 'Macaria,' or 
the main characters at least, are three in number — for, disdaining even the 
traditional duality, perhaps because it is traditional, the authoress has given 
us a trinity of chief personages. There is Eussell Aubrey — the very type 
of the American self-made man. There is Irene Huntingdon, the self-poised, 
1 faultily faultless ' daughter of a stern millionaire ; and there is Electra 
35 



274 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Gray, a large- eyed, fervid devotee of Art. Eussell Aubrey is, when the 
scene opens, a dry-goods clerk, and Irene and Electra, school-girls. Prompted 
by pride and ambition, the hero devotes his spare hours to study, is received 
into a lawyer's office, goes to Europe, returns, is admitted to the bar and pros- 
pers, dabbles in politics, and ' in the course of the political cataclysm ' (Ma- 
car ia) is elected to the legislature. He loves Irene, and Electra loves him. 
Feelings conflict, strange love-experiences occur. Aubrey has ambition to 
distract him ; Electra also serves two masters — Love and Art ; and Irene, 
who finally discovers her heart is Aubrey's, mingles with her contemplations 
on that subject the astronomical contemplation of the heavens. The plot 
thickens. The triple, or rather sextuple thread of the tale becomes inextri- 
cably involved. Then the war breaks out, and the Gordian knot is — as is 
classically proper — cut by the sword. Aubrey becomes a soldier, and proves 
himself a good one. He serves faithfully, is wounded unto death, and ex- 
pires in Irene's clasping arms, a noble victim offered up on a pure ' altar of 
sacrifice.' At his death the proper duality is restored — though that duality 
is of one sex, for 'Macaria' is strange to the last. Irene and Electra become 
heart-sisters, one ministering to the soldier and the poor, and the other pour- 
ing out her artist soul over a high-art painting, The Modern Macaria — a 
battle-scene, where the Federal flag trails in the dust, and the white-robed 
Angel of Peace stops the touch-hole of a cannon. 

" Such is a rapid enumeration of ' Macaria's ' salient points. The design of 
the work we have already characterized as impossible of accomplishment, 
and the conduct of the story is marred by a flashy show of erudition. These 
are grave defects — exceedingly grave, as affecting equally design and execu- 
tion ; and yet, in spite of all, ' Macaria' is a fine book. It is thoroughly read- 
able, it will be productive of good, and has not a few most tender and grace- 
ful passages — so tender and so graceful that we could wish to have heard less 
of ceons and chiliasms, and more of love and duty. Here the authoress ex- 
cels. The heart — the great, loving, clinging, lovable heart — is peculiarly 
the province of woman, and few there be who can touch its softest chords 
like the authoress of 'Beulah.' Striking those chords as she did in ' Beulah/ 
many will hang upon her words and bless her for the comfort and happiness 
they bring. Forsaking the substance for the shadow, and striving to reach 
the head rather than touch the heart, there are few who will not feel that she 
is giving but husks to the hungry. Classic allusion and metaphysic theory 
are 'caviare to the general,' and it is for the general the novelist should 
write. Those who love the classics will not look for their beauties in a mod- 
ern romance ; and the devotees of science are still less likely to forsake the 
tomes of fact for the brochures of fancy. 

" But cuique in sua arte credendum est — let credit be given every one in his 
own craft. It may be thought that we speak too harshly of ' Macaria ; ' and 
' Macaria ' shall speak for itself. 



AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 275 

" Here is the passage which describes the star-gazing of Irene. It is night, 
and she watches the heavens : 

"' In panoramic vision she crossed the dusty desert of centuries, and watched with 
Chaldean shepherds the pale, sickly light of waning moons on Shinar's plains ; welcomed 
the gnomon (first-born of the great family of astronomic apparatus) ; toiled over and 
gloried in the Zaros ; stood at the armillary sphere of Ju, in the days of Confucius ; stu- 
died with Thales, Anaxirnander, and Pythagoras ; entered the sacred precincts of tho 
school of Crotona, hand-in-hand with Damo, the earliest woman who bowed a devotee at 
the starry shrine, and, with her, was initiated into its esoteric doctrines ; puzzled with 
Meton over his lunar cycle ; exulted in Hipparchus's gigantic labor, the first collection 
of tables, the earliest reliable catalogues ; walked through the Alexandrine school of 
savans, misled by Ptolemy ; and bent with Uliegh Beigh over the charts of Samarcand. 
In imagination she accompanied Copernicus and Tycho-Brahe, and wrestled with Kepler 
in the Titanic struggle that ended in the discovery of the magnificent trinity of astrono- 
mic laws framed by the Divine Architect when the first star threw its faint shimmer 
through the silent waste of space. Kepler's three laws were an unceasing wonder and 
joy to her, and with a fond, womanly pride she was wont to recur to a lonely observatory 
in Silesia, where, before Newton rose upon the world, one of her own sex, Maria Cunitz, 
launched upon the stormy sea of scientific literature the ' Urania Propitia.' The Con- 
gress of Lilienthal possessed far more of interest for her than any which ever sat in 
august council over the fate of nations, and the names of Herschel, Bessel, Argelander, 
Sfaruve, Arago, Leverrier, and Maedler were sacred as Persian telefin. From the 'Al- 
magest' of Ptolemy, and the ' Cometographie' of Pingre 1 , to the ' Meeanique Celeste,' 
she had searched and toiled ; and now the sublime and almost bewildering speculations 
of Maedler held her spell-bound.' 

" This is the style we dislike — the false, strained, would-be Frenchy, ready- 
made scientific style, distressing to the reader, and unworthy the writer. It 
glitters, yet it is not gold. But here is the pure gold itself — pray that the suc- 
cessors of ' Macaria ' have more of it. Eussell Aubrey is dying. They have 
brought him to the rear, and as his life is fleeting fast away in Irene's arms, 
he speaks : 

'"" I should like to have seen the end of the struggle — but Thy will, my God! not 
mine." 

" 'He lifted his eyes toward heaven, and for some moments his lips moved inaudibly in 
prayer. Gradually a tranquil expression settled on his features, and as his eyes closed 
again he murmured faintly : 

" ' " Irene — darling — raise me a little." 

" 'They lifted him and rested his head against her shoulder. 

"'"Irene!" 

" '" I am here, Russell ; my arms are around you." 

" ' She laid her cheek on his, and listened to catch the words; but none came. The lips 
parted once, and a soft fluttering breath swept across them. Dr. Arnold put his hand 
over the heart — no pulsation greeted him; and, turning away, the old man covered his 
face with his handkerchief. 

" ' " Russell, speak to me once more." 



276 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

"' There was no sound — no motion. She knew then that the soldier's spirit had soared 
to the shores of Everlasting Peace, and that not until she joined him there would the 
loved tones again make music in her heart. She tightened her arms around the still 
form and nestled her cheek closer to his, now growing cold. No burst of grief escaped 
her, to tell of agony and despair : 

"But, like a statue solid set, 
And moulded in colossal calm," 

she sat mute and resigned, at the foot of the Red Dripping Altar of Patriotism, where 
lay in hallowed sacrifice her noble, darling dead.' 

" Bating the poetry and the many capitals at the close — for human extrem- 
ity never quotes poetry or employs capitals — this is nobly written. It is 
true, and therefore touching. It is feeling, and therefore felt. It is worthy 
of the authoress of ' Beulah/ and as far superior to the stringing together of 
microcosm and macrocosm, almagest and telefin, chiliasm and adyta as the elo- 
quence of Pericles surpassed the mouthings of Cleon." 

"St. Elmo" was published in 1867, by Carleton & Co., New York, 
and soon acquired the reputation of being the "most praised and best- 
abused novel " ever published in this country by a woman. 

The "Round Table," in a lengthy notice of this book, says : 

" ' St. Elmo ' is a curious mixture of power and weakness — of insight and 
superficiality — of creative vigor, and of tame imitation; and while it evinces 
of real merit sufficient to stock half a dozen of the domestic fictions from 
female hands to which we are so well accustomed, it at once falls short of 
the ideal the writer herself unquestionably had in view, and persuades us 
that with time, perseverance, and a rigid chastening of style, she can pro- 
duce something far better 

" ' St. Elmo ' is an interesting story, if it is in some respects a stilted and 
pretentious one. It is a promising story, if not a particularly robust or 
original one." 

From the many reviews and notices that have appeared of " St. 
Elmo," we have selected one, written by Dr. Jerome Cochran, of 
Mobile, and printed in the " Home Monthly," Nashville, to make our 
extracts : 

" It is not necessary to read the title-page to know that ' St. Elmo ' is the 
work of the same warm, true heart, and of the same resolute, aspiring mind 
to which the world is indebted for ' Beulah ' and ' Macaria.' We have here, 
in still higher development, the excellences for which those two books were 
remarkable; the same love of inanimate nature; the same confident assertion 
of the dignity and blessedness of labor ; the same impatience of all servility, 



AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 277 

meanness, and duplicity; the same immaculate purity of conception, thought, 
feeling, expression ; the same beautiful synipathy with all the forms and 
phases of self-abnegation and self-sacrifice ; the same reverent appreciation 
of the metaphysical and ethical doctrines of the Christian religion ; the same 
unswerving devotion to Duty — stern daughter of the voice of God ; and, in a 
word, the same abounding enthusiasm, the same abiding faith in all things 
beautiful, and true, and good 

"In spite of all its faults, 'St. Elmo' is a genuine, earnest book; a strong, 
honest, rich book; a book brimful of fine thought, graceful feeling, and bril- 
liant imagination ; a book which no other woman could have written, and 
of which it may be safely said that in its day and generation it will do some 
good in the world. In the ordinary sense of the word, it is not a sensational 
book. It derives no part of its interest from perverse ingenuity of plot, nor 
from the skilful management of some tantalizing and perplexing mystery, 
with its customary train of evanescent and shadowy fascinations. And yet it 
throws over the reader a spell which he cannot shake off, which enchains his 
attention from the first chapter to the last, and will not allow him to stop 
until the end is reached. 

" It is easy to say that the style is inflated and ambitious ; but more than 
this is necessary to describe it fitly. It is always clear and strong, and rich 
with every variety of rhetorical embellishment. Sometimes it is imbued 
with the truest and tenderest pathos, and affluent of music as the song of 
the nightingale. Sometimes it is all aglow with the fire of eloquence, and 
gleams and flashes like a sky all stars. And this is its fault. It is too rich, 
too brilliant, too liberally garnished with those ambitious polysyllables, 
words sesquipedalian of learned strength and thundering sound, which were 
such favorites with Dr. Johnson and Dr. Parr. It seems at times to walk 
on stilts ; and very often, in passages which are in other respects beautiful 
exceedingly, we come across some verbal monstrosity, or some incongruous 
comparison dragged in by the heels, which provokes us beyond measure. 
There is too much glitter. We grow weary of the unchanging splendor — 
of the prodigal opulence of similes, metaphors, and recondite allusions. 

"The plot is extremely simple. Edna Earl — this name, by the way, is 
not musically correct — Edna Earl, the heroine, is a simple country-girl, the 
daughter of a carpenter. Bereft in early childhood of both father and 
mother, she grew up, until her twelfth year, near Chattanooga, Tennessee, 
ignorant of worldly knowledge, and of the guile which so often keeps it 
company, under the shadow of Mount Lookout, and the care of her grand- 
father, Aaron Hunt, the blacksmith, when, he also dying, she is left alone in 
the world, without kith or kin, and takes the cars for Columbus, Georgia, 
with the intention of working in the factory for a living, and of educating 
herself as she best can. Providence, which watches over the sparrows when 
they fall, does not favor the factory scheme, having quite other fortune in 
store for the stricken wanderer ; and the train which carries Edna collides 



278 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

with another, with the usual quota of broken heads and limbs. Edna, badly 
hurt, but with some life left in her, is taken to Le Bocage, the palatial resi- 
dence of the Murrays, to be watched and tended until she recovers from her 
injuries. Her sweet, patient temper, together with her gifts of mind and 
body, wins so much of Mrs. Murray's good opinion, that it is arranged that 
she shall remain at Le Bocage until she is qualified to teach; and her educa- 
tion is intrusted to Mr. Hammond, the venerable, pastor of the village 
church, under whose care her hungry intellect devours an immense amount 
of miscellaneous mental food, including Greek and Latin, and even a little 
of Hebrew and Chaldee, her unfeminine curiosity perversely leading her to 
seek acquaintance with Eddas, Sagas, Talmuds, Targums, and Egyptian, 
Greek, Eoman, and Scandinavian mythologies, instead of resting satisfied 
with the usual feminine varieties. At Le Bocage she makes the acquaint- 
ance of St. Elmo Murray, the hero of the book, the master of the house, and 
the only son of her benefactress. St. Elmo, like Phillips' Napoleon, is grand, 
gloomy, and peculiar. He is also handsome and rich — his beauty, to borrow 
a simile from Edgar Poe, dark and splendid, like that ebony to which has 
been likened the eloquence of Tertullian — his wealth of such fabulous abun- 
dance as to enable him to gratify the most extravagant whims of his extrav- 
agant imagination. He had grown up with his heart full of generous sym- 
pathy for humanity's toiling and suffering millions, and with his head full 
of philanthropic schemes for the amelioration of humanity's abounding 
miseries. The darling friend of his youth, Mr. Hammond's son, whom he 
had overwhelmed with benefactions, betrayed his confidence with treachery 
most foul. The beautiful woman whom he loved with all the fervor of his 
passionate nature was cruelly unfaithful to her vows. He tore the false 
woman from his heart with scorn and loathing ; the false friend he killed in 
a duel. Soured into misanthropy and skepticism, fierce, moody, implacable, 
taking no delight in man, nor woman either, he heaped bitterest maledic- 
tions and anathemas upon the whole hated race of human beings, and de- 
voted himself, soul and body, heart, mind, and estate, to the service of the 
infernal gods. This man, trampling all the charities and nobilities of 
human nature under his irreverent feet, Edna regards, first with fear and 
aversion, then with pitying wonder, and then — inexorable, inevitable fatality 
— with blind, passionate love; illustrating the truth of Pope's familiar lines: 

" ' Vice is a monster of such frightful mien, 
As to be hated needs but to be seen ; 
But seen too oft, familiar with its face, 
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.' 

"And how does St. Elmo feel, think, act toward the poor orphan girl 
whom accident had thrown under his roof? She was human, and therefore, 
in his opinion, vile. She was woman, and' therefore, according to his phi- 
losophy, false. But when he found her always clinging resolutely to the 



AUGUSTA J. EVAXS. 279 

right; when years of temptation and trial left her always faithful and true — 
always ' pure, womanly' — his stoical misanthropy gave way. The love that 
had been cast out of his fierce heart, and buried out of sight for so many 
years, revisited the glimpses of the moon. He struggled against it ; but it 
would not down at his bidding. At last, clasping her in his arms, covering 
her lips with passionate kisses, he poured into her ear the dark history of 
his life, into her heart the perilous burden of his passionate love. Here is 
the crisis of the book. For a weak woman, under the circumstances, there 
would have been no hope. But Edna is not weak. In spite of the mesmeric 
fascinations which invested her lover as he stood before her like an arch- 
angel fallen — in spite of the love that pleaded for him out of the depths of 
her woman's heart — she will be none of his ; she will not degrade her 
womanhood by marrying a man whom she knows is not worthy of her. 

" They parted ; she to pursue a brilliant literary career in Is ew York — to 
win money, reputation, hosts of friends, everything necessary to gratify 
her ambition. She is admired and praised, and her hand is sought by men 
most brilliantly endowed in mind and person and in this world's perishable 
goods. But her heart still clings, with unreasoning affection, to St. Elmo ; 
and so, poor, proud, honest woman that she is, the flattering offers are all 
declined. In the mean time, Edna's love of St. Elmo — for well the wicked 
man knows she cannot help but love him — is the one star, radiant of hope, 
which shines in the dark sky that overshadows him. He will make himself 
worthy of Edna ; with that prize before him, his lexicon has in it no such 
word as fail. He mends his ways. The lips that have so often uttered God's 
name in curses, now tremble in pious supplications. All that he can do to 
atone for the folly and wickedness of his misspent life he does. And the 
peace that passeth all understanding descends from the heaven of heavens 
into his heart once more. He is ordained to the ministry. Mr. Hammond's 
venerable hands are laid upon him in benediction, and his mother's heart 
blossoms like the rose. Behabilitated in the sight of men and of angels, he 
seeks Edna Earl. She cannot be more just than God — cannot condemn the 
man whom God has pardoned ; and so she takes him the usual way, for bet- 
ter or for worse, to love, honor, and obey 

" The character of Edna has at least one of the merits which criticism 
demands — it is true t© nature. Miss Evans puts herself, more or less, into 
every book she writes. Beulah is like her in many things; Irene is like her 
in many things ; but Edna is her finished and authentic portrait of herself. 
The biographical details of Edna's life are not applicable to Miss Evans, 
and in personal appearance they are widely different ; but in moral and intel- 
lectual character they are precisely the same. As Edna feels and thinks, so 
feels and thinks Miss Evans; and just as Edna talks. Miss Evans talks. The 
most dazzling conversational bravura of Edna in the book is not one whit 
more keen, polished, and brilliant than Miss Evans's impromptu conversations 



280 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

in real life ; and Edna's self is not more worthy to be loved and honored 
than the gifted lady whose fancy painted her. 

" Miss Evans has done well in ' St. Elmo ; ' bnt she can do better. She 
has the native power of thought, the energy of will, the shaping-power of 
imagination, and the triumphant faculty of labor, which sweeps all difficul- 
ties from its path, all the qualifications that are necessary to produce a truly 
great book — a book that will deserve to live, and that will live." 

/ Miss Evans was married, on the 1st of December, 1868, to Mr. L. 
M. Wilson, of Mobile. Her residence is at Summerville, about four 
miles from the city of Mobile. 

In 1870, Carleton, publisher, New York, purchased from Mrs. 
Wilson, at the extremely liberal price of fifteen thousand dollars, the 
copyright of "Vashti; or, Until Death us do Part" — Mrs. Wilson's 
last novel. Like "St. Elmo," this was much abused; and, unlike that 
fine work, "little praised." It was not equal to the former productions 
of Miss Evans's pen ; and, although having a large sale, was not as 
successful as her former novels. / 

The preface to " Vashti " is from Lessing : "Every man has his own 
style, as he has his own nose ; and it is neither polite nor Christian to 
rally an honest man about his nose, however singular it may be. How 
can I help that my style is not different ? That there is no affectation 
in it, I am very certain." 
1870. 




I. M. PORTER HENRY. 

MRS. HENRY is perhaps best known as a contributor to General 
Hill's magazine, "The Land we Love," and other Southern pa- 
pers and magazines, under her maiden name of Ina M. Porter, also 
publishing under the nom de plume of "Ethel Hope." She is a native 
of Tuscaloosa, Ala., a daughter of Judge B. F. Porter, a South Caro- 
linian by birth, and the writer of occasional verses of considerable 
poetic merit. Mrs. Henry from a very early age indulged in litera- 
ture, always happy when she was able to sit near her father and write. 

For several years, her " youthful " muse sang Indian legends, vague 
fancies, the beauties of her mountain home, and revelled in the mists 
which shrouded the rolling hills, or grew ecstatic on the bosom of the 
lovely Tennessee River ; yet she wandered, sighing for some deeper song 
to sing. She felt that power within her which must be perfected 
through deeper emotions than those called forth by the calm beauty 
of nature, some key-note more sublime than caves, chasms, and mighty 
waters. It came — when the war-cry sounded through our land, she 
knew that the " South " was her theme. 

Through the sufferings of her countrymen and women, she learned 
that poets could find no higher strain than love of right and hate of 
wrong — no holier subject than truth. 

Judge Porter made his home in Greenville ; now a thriving little 
town, on the line of the Mobile and Montgomery Railroad. 

Miss Porter wrote a play during the second year of the w T ar, entitled 
" None but the Brave Deserve the Fair," which was performed at the 
Mobile Theatre, and subsequently at Greenville, for the benefit of the 
" Confederate Soldiers." In Simms's " War Poetry of the South," " La- 
ment for Mumford " and several other poems commemorative of the 
struggle of the South appear from this drama. Miss Porter's prose arti- 
cles during the war were mostly on topics of local interest, or upon 
some practical question applicable to the wants and means of aiding 
our soldiers. 

The " Roadside Stories," appearing in " The Land we Love," were 
truly excellent pictures of " life in Dixie." Few, to read them, would 
think they were written under adverse circumstances — written during 
that period of desolation which followed the surrender of the " Con- 
federate cause." 

Judge Porter's family shared the common heritage of Southrons, and 
3G 281 



282 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

were left with little to wear and little to eat ; and to add to these " evils," 
sickness surrounded them. 

A friend tells me that Miss iDa Porter and her mother were the 
only available workers on the place — all the others sick, and the ser- 
vants all left, except one, a girl, who had the small-pox, and was of 
no assistance. Mrs. Porter was physician and nurse, and Miss Ina 
cook and maid of all work. Under these circumstances, not favor- 
able to literary labors, the " Roadside Stories " were written. AVe 
mention these facts to show the heroic spirit that animated one of our 
bright stars among " Southland Writers," and can truly say she is but 
a representative of the many in her " will to do." 

In October, 1867, Miss Porter was married to Mr. George L. Henry, 
and continues to reside near Greenville, Butler County, Ala. She 
continues to " wield her pen " when other duties and health permit — 
for, we regret to say, her health has not been good, and the death of 
her father was a severe blow. Mr. and Mrs. Henry have begun the 
battle of life with " Confederate weapons," warm hearts and strong 
wills ; and success and happiness must crown their hearth-stone. 

1369. 



EIMMEPv. 

I stand before thee, Eiinmer, 

And as thy chosen wife 
Am exultant in the glory — 

Crowning glory of my life. 

Wind no rosy veil about me, 

My actual self to hide ; 
As a real — not ideal — 

Look upon your future bride. 

You smile at my odd fancies ; 

Smile — but know me as I am, 
Or our voices ne'er can mingle 

In the holy marriage-psalm. 

You natter me, gay Eimmer ; 

You call my eyes sky -bright ! 
Have you seen the blue skies darken 

At the falling of the night ? 



CATHERINE W. TOWLES. 283 

You vow my cheeks are petals 

From living roses rent ; 
Ah, the roses wither, Rimmer, 

When the summer shine is spent ! 

There ! my unbound hair you 're calling 

Golden eddies of the morn ! 
Do you know the dawn- waves whiten 

When the yellow sun is gone ? 

If you love me, if you trust me, 

Erring, human, as you see, 
Give your honor to my keeping, 

As I give my own to thee. 

My life I cast before thee ; 

Its pages lie unclaspt ; 
'Read from alpha to omega, 

Judge the future by the past. 

Canst thou mete as I have measured 

Truth as boundless as the sea ? 
Speak ! my heart will not be broken — 

Ha ! 't is glorious to be, free ! 

Oh, forgive me, noble Rimmer ! 

No love nor faith I lack ; 
But the wedding robes are holy 

As the coffin's solemn black ! 

Our souls are God's, not ours — 

My heart is all I bring ; 
Lift me higher, royal lover ; 

I crown thee — my king ! 



CATHERINE W. TOWLES. 

AMONG the writers of the " Southland " who have labored in the 
" heat of the day," never ceasing in the good work of providing 
interesting, instructive, and moral literature for her countrywomen, 
may be named Miss C. W. Barber ; for by her familiar maiden name 
is she best known to the readers of Southern periodical literature. 



284 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Miss Barber was born in Charleniont, a romantic little town in 
Northern Massachusetts, on the 25th day of October, 1823. She was 
the daughter of a farmer, and her earliest recollections are of green 
pastures, where fed herds and flocks ; rich meadows, where waved the 
tall grass ready for the mower's scythe, and fields of golden grain 
ripening in the sunshine. She early began her literary career, sending 
verses to the country newspapers while yet a mere child. These verses 
were favorably received by the reading public, and were frequently 
copied into other journals. Hon. Whiting Griswold, now of Green- 
field, Mass., was her principal teacher ; he was at the time a student 
in Amherst College. He brought her books to read from the college 
library, and encouraged her to study and literary effort. 

In 1846, soon after the death of her father, she came South to reside 
in the family of her brother. Her literary reputation followed her, 
and contributions were solicited of her by Southern journals. 

In 1849, she received two prizes, one for the best tale, and one for 
the best poem, written for the "Madison Family Visitor," a literary 
and family journal started in Morgan County, Geo., and was solicited 
to take charge of its literary department ; and did so, and continued 
editress of this paper for three years. It was during this period that 
she wrote a series of tales for the "Masonic Signet and Journal," which 
were so well received by the fraternity that they were collected into a 
volume, and published in New York under the title of " Tales for the 
Freemason's Fireside." Shortly afterward she wrote a series of " Odd- 
Fellow Tales," which were published in a volume, entitled "The Three 
Golden Links." 

In 1861, Miss Barber became connected with the " Southern Lite- 
rary Companion," a paper published by I. N. Davis, a blind man, in 
the town of Newnan, Georgia. To this journal she contributed nove- 
lettes, and articles on subjects "humorous, grave, and severe." Her 
connection with this paper continued until the close of the war. In 
the spring of 1866, she became editress and proprietress of a literary 
paper published in Newnan, called "Miss Barber's Weekly," which 
was continued until August 29th, 1867, when Miss C. W. Barber 
became the wife of Hon. John C. Towles, of Lafayette, Ala. She now 
resides on her husband's plantation near that place. 

Although of Northern birth, Mrs. Towles is Southern by acclimation 
and long residence, and she considers Alabama her home; for to her 
it is now " a land of rest." 
1869. 



MKS. JULIA SHELTOK 

(" Laura Lorrimer") 
" Genius — native talent." 

LAURA LORRIMER possesses "genius of a rare order," and 
several years ago was noted as one of the most promising of the 
young writers of the South. In December, 1855, she married Mr. J. 
A. Shelton, of Bellefonte, Alabama, at which place she resides at the 
present time, having two children, a son and daughter. 

Julia Finley was born on the Cumberland River, Tennessee, and at 
an early age commenced "poetizing." She was one of George D. 
Prentice's galaxy of poets — of which Amelia Welby was probably 
the best known. The South, and indeed the whole country, owe much 
to this gifted and noble Kentuckian, for his helping hand and encour- 
aging words to young aspirants for literary fame. 

" Laura Lorrimer " was a contributor to the various journals and 
magazines, North and South — Godey's "Lady's Book," "Louisville 
Journal," and "Field and Fireside," among others. 



THE FEVER-SLEEP. 



A PRIZE POEM. 



There was a Hecla raging in my soul, 

Of wild emotions which might not be stilled. 

Through its dim arcades flashed the murky light, 

In fitful corruscations, and each niche 

Grew all irradiate. On the year's broad breast 

Four months had wreathed their coronals and died, 

For it was May, but in my fevered soul 

The sweet May flowers had withered, and upon 

Its myrtle garland slept a mildew blight. 

One year ago that very May, I bent, 

In love and faith, beneath the deep-blue heaven, 

285 



286 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

And as the stars went floating up its arch, 
My soul was floating on the passionate breath 
Of new, strange music to a fairy land. 
Life then was golden-tinted : I had not- 
One unbelieving thought ; I could not link 
The purple glory of my dreams in one ; 
They wavered, flashed, and paled like sunset gleams, 
Through the proud arches and pilastered domes 
Of Southern climes. Oh ! I had never known 
Aught half so blissful, and I lived an age 
In every breath which chronicled that hour 
Of my existence. Immortality 
Seemed charactered upon it, and I heard 
The low, sweet chiming of a thousand streams, 
Which swept their crystal through the amaranth bowel's 
Of Aiden, and the mystic language grew 
Articulate. I seemed to hear them say 
That love like this could never die ; that through 
The march of centuries to Eternity, 
Its hymn of adoration still would rise 
And tremble on the air. I have had dreams 
Which crowned my spirit as I walked amid 
The shadowy vale of visions, with a band 
Of all unearthly radiance, but, oh ! none 
So bright as those which clustered round me on 
That sweet May midnight, when my eyelids drooped, 
Dank with the dews of slumber on my cheek, 
And the soft echo of love's thrilling words 
Still lingering around me. How my soul 
Grew gently luminous with gleaming wings, 
As the night-sky with stars ! 

May came again ; 
But my hot brow seemed banded with a chain 
Of living fire. My senses all were bound 
In the dread fetters of a fever-sleep. 
I struggled with my thraldom, and my thoughts 
Wandered within a narrow, darkened cell — 
Pale, wingless phantoms, striving to unlock 
The gates of destiny. Then strange, wild birds, 
With eyes of fire and wings of lurid flame, 
Perched close beside me, and, from time to time, 
Sank deep their vulture beaks into my heart. 
I knew they were my incarnated passions, which 
The fever-demon mockingly had called 



JULIA SHELTON. 287 

Into a fierce existence. Closer still 

They flocked around me, and I was upborne 

Upon, their rushing pinions through the stars, 

On, on to " outer darkness." There are orbs, 

Which ages since flashed down a golden ray, 

Whose earthward journey yet is scarce begun, 

And we had passed the farthest; now we stood 

At the closed gates of dread, eternal Night. 

" Room" shrieked, half humanly, each vulture throaty 

" Boom for our burden." Fetterless, the winds 

Roamed the abyss, and answered, " There is none ! " 

Time had not winged another moment ere 

Light flashed upon my eyelids. On the earth 

How one short moment oft has crowned my soul 

With years of rapture, and I have grown old, 

Even in the folding of one warm .caress ! 

Another moment, and a star-throned isle 

Gleamed in the blue beneath us. " We must rest,' 7 

Moaned my fierce carriers ; " room is for us here, 

In this fair planet ; here our weary wings 

Shall leave their burden." Wooingly the waves, 

From their blue, throbbing bosoms, whispered " Come" 

It was a lovely world : its temples lay 

Like heavy snow-rifts, in the gentle light 

Of seven bright moons. It was a paradise, 

Which I had never imaged, even amid 

My wildest visions. Opiate incense rose 

From nameless flower-buds, like the heavy mists 

From the damp earth, and every nerve grew faint 

With dreamy languor. I was all alone, 

That star- world's sovereign. It had never yet 

Felt the soft stirring of an angel-plume 

In its calm air. The chiming of the wave, 

The wind's low footstep, and the wild bird's song, 

Were all its music. But my heart-strings still 

Were linked to earth, and to earth's passion-dreams. 

One cloud may veil the " day-god's" fiery steeds, 
Even in the zenith of their blue-arched path ; 
And now earth-shadows severed from my soul 
The soft, gold arms of the caressing light. 
Wiser than I have tangled up their prayers 
In the dark tresses of a haughty bead, 



288 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

And sung a hymn to clay instead of God ; 
And I — am but a mortal ; so I had 
An idol with me, e'en among the stars, 
A name to which my soul forever sang 
As to a deity, and whispered words 
Of half-unearthly worship. 

Hours or months, 
It might have been, grew gray and died, but yet 
There came no day. My spirit could not count 
Time's heavy throbbings, but the very air 
Seemed faint and tremulous with an unseen 
And mighty presence. Four bright pinions came 
Floating above me, and then wavered down, 
Like the gold leaves of autumn, by my side. 
Beautiful angels were they, Love and Faith, 
But Love stood nearest, bending o'er my heart, 
As if to count its throbbings. God had sent 
Visible angels, thus to symbol forth 
The thoughts invisible which filled my soul. 
Oh, in the heavens, Israfel's sweet lute 
Ne'er to his fingers thrilled as did my heart 
To the soft music of their murmured words — 
That angel lullaby ! My lids drooped down, 
Charmed with its opiate. To the land of dreams, 
I bore the vague, sweet echoes of the song : 

Slumbers be thine, 

Gentle and deep; 
Queen of the star-isle, 

Eest in our keep ! 

Chased by our pinions, 

Trouble shall fly, ' 
Ever around thee 

Eise Love's lullaby. 

Faith ever near thee 

Guardian shall stand, 
Love round thy forehead 

Twine her bright band. 

The music died in wailings. O'er the sky 
Swept a dark tempest, and my star-isle shook 
To its foundations ; fiery lavas rolled 
In desolating fury down the slopes 



JULIA SHELTON. 289 

So grand with beauty, and the temples fell 
In shapeless masses on the trembling earth. 
My angel guards had fled ; beside me stood 
A demon presence, giant-like and stern, 
^^earfully beautiful twined the iris crown 
In the black billowy locks which swept away 
From the lost angelhood of his broad brow — 
Fit rival for the passions glowing fierce 
And tiger-like in the wild orbs beneath. 
Silent in demon majesty he stood, 
But ever and anon the heavy wings 
Shook almost to unfolding, and the mists 
Dropped from them, leadenly, upon my brow. 
All, all was silence, save the wild heart-throbs 
Which strove to burst their prison ; for I shrank 
In voiceless terror from the bitter smile 
Which curved the haughty lips, and from the stern 
And blasting gaze of those dark, fiery eyes. 

I rose and strove to fly ; but demon wings 

Flapped heavily around me, and a voice 

Which filled the universe hissed in my ear 

The awful words : " Down ! down ! to meet thy doom. 

Thou hast lost heaven for earth, and staked thy soul 

Against a mortal's love. For one whose brow 

Is crowned with amaranth, thou hast flung down 

The gauntlet to Omnipotence. Depart ! " 

I was a wanderer. A mark was set, 

Like Cain's, upon my forehead ; and alone, 

Amidst the mighty forests of the West, 

I writhed my way. Like sleeping Titans lay 

The mountain ranges in the dim gray light 

Which heralded the dawn. Before me rolled 

The ocean, with its hungry waves astir, 

Leaping in eager bounds upon the strand, 

Like wild beasts on their prey. 

"Alas," I cried, 
"Alas for thee ! my own sweet spirit-love ! 
Thou art not now beside me ; but thy deep 
And passionate words are floating round my heart 
Like angels in the darkness, and again 
I drink a haunting music from their swell ; 
Their memory comes like echoes frqm the past, 
37 



290 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

The blessed past. Will no one ope the gates, 
And lead me backward to that glorious state, 
And to the idol of my girlhood dreams 
And their wild fervor? " 

Then a genius came, 
And he unlocked the caverns of the deep ; 
Then bore me downward to the blue-sea halls, 
And midst those coral grottos cooled my hands 
In crystal vases. There the opal shone 
With mystic radiance, and the emerald wreathed 
The pale, dead brows, which gleamed up white and strange 
Amid the sea-weed. Oh ! they slept with pearls 
And all things beautiful, and the great waves 
Forever pealed a requiem o'er them, and 
Thus shall they sleep until time's dying throbs 
Shall shake the universe. 

"Go seek thy love," 
Whispered the spirit, and a mocking smile 
Bent his red lip ; " perchance he sleepeth here 
In Neptune's regal palace." 

One by one 
I numbered o'er the dead, and wandered on 
For weary miles. I lifted raven curls 
From many a brow, and bent o'er many a lip ; 
But yet saw none which bore the spell of his 
For whom I sought with hopeless, patient love. 
Soft through the waters, gleaming like a star, 
Flashed a clear ray. " Sweet love ! " I murmured then, 
" Be this the guide to lead my steps to him." 
Fresh glories gleamed around me. Eainbow-hued 
And crimson sea-flowers climbed a coral arch, 
And draped a regal couch ; and there he lay, 
Not pale and dead, but warm and rich with life. 
Age yet had pressed but lightly on the brow 
So glorious in its beauty, and those curls 
Of raven darkness swept its marble breadth 
In shadowy magnificence. The eyes 
Had learned not coldness from the frozen years 
Which rolled their heights between us ; the full lips 
Were curving their rich crimson in a smile, 
And angel pinions drooped with silvery sheen 
From the broad shoulders. Like a peal of bells, 
He syllabled my name. I never thought 
If he had wings on earth, or was so fair, 



OCT A VI A WALTON LEVERT. 291 

But still I nestled in his warm embrace ; 

And then he said, one cabalistic word 

From him would ope those portals as the sun 

Unbars the gates of day. With trumpet-voice 

He breathed the mystic spell. A thousand flowers 

Seemed blending all their blossoms into one ; 

A thousand music-echoes seemed to sweep 

Into infinitude, and dazzling rings 

Of golden light, in widening circles, flashed 

Athwart my vision, and my fever- dreams 

Were torn apart, as by a wizard spell. 

Yet one remained — the sweetest one — to be 

A sweet reality. A proud face bent 

O'er my pale brow, and wooing, loving words 

Charmed my weak senses. All athirst, I drank 

The God-sent nectar, and my pulses beat 

With healthful throbbings. Life to me once more 

Was beautiful, and the great boundary -line 

Which spanned my Eden was Eternity. 

MRS. OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 

MADAME LE VERT is more widely known in a social than in 
a literary way. She was born near Augusta, Georgia, — the 
grandchild of that Walton who was both sage and soldier in the 
Revolution, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. 
Reared in Pensacola, Florida, (whither she was removed in infancy,) 
she received the most thorough instruction, and became fully versed 
in several languages. The presence of naval officers at Pensacola gave 
a charm to society there ; and under these most propitious auspices, 
Miss Walton made her dibut into society. Her intellectual accom- 
plishments and the perpetual sunshine of a gay and glad spirit, always 
amiable, kind, and considerate, were her charms. Visiting the prin- 
cipal points of fashionable resort and the principal cities of the Union, 
Miss Walton became widely known and admired. 

In 1836, Miss Walton became the wife of Dr. Henry S. Le Vert, an 
eminent physician of Mobile. Their home on Government Street was, 
until after her husband's death and the close of the late war, the 
resort of all strangers of distinction visiting Mobile ; and here Mrs. 
Le Vert dispensed the most enlarged hospitality. 



292 LIVING FEMALE WEITEESOF THE SOUTH. 

Mrs. Le Vert twice travelled in Europe; and in 1858, S. H. Goetzel 
.& Co., of Mobile, published, in two duodecimo volumes, " Souvenirs of 
Travel." This work was eminently successful. These volumes con. 
sist chiefly of private letters, journals, and sketches during her two 
visits to "Over the Sea," and are rich in brilliant descriptions, and 
picturesque and glowing in style and arrangement of particulars. 

Mrs. Le Vert makes her home equally in New York and with a 
married daughter near her own birthplace, and occasionally writes for 
the literary journals of the Metropolis. She is of that happy disposi- 
tion that never takes on the years, but seems ever youthful and full 
of life and joyousness. 

In 1866, Carleton, New York, issued a new edition of " Souvenirs 
of Travel," two volumes in one. 

1871. 



MAKY WAKE. 

THE blue hills of Tennessee encircle no lovelier gem than the beau- 
tiful vale of " Sweet Water." Here, in the midst of the most pic- 
turesque scenery, Mary Harris passed her childhood's morn, her soul 
imbibing a love for all things beautiful in nature. Her brother 
Edmund was her constant companion : they read together, rambled 
together, and their thoughts and feelings entwined around the same 
objects and desires. When they were on the verge of manhood and 
womanhood, their parents removed to Alabama. Edmund commenced 
writing for the press ; and Mary, enjoying her brother's productions, 
ventured to do likewise. Her first verses appeared in the "Mobile 
Advertiser," in 1852. 

Brother and sister became regular contributors to the " Home 
Circle," (Nashville,) and other Southern journals, and also for "Godey's 
Lady's Book," — Miss Harris writing over the pseudonym of " Gertrude 
Glenn." 

About 1854, Mr. Edmund Harris removed to Mobile, and became 
associate editor of one of the city papers. He died in 1859. 

In 1864, Miss Harris was married to Mr. Horace Ware, She 
resides in Columbiana, Alabama. 

She has written in prose and verse for various magazines, and is a 



MARY WARE. 293 

favorite writer for children in " Burke's Weekly," (Macon, Ga.) She 
has about two hundred short poems of her own, and quite a collection 
of her brother's, which she expects to publish in book-form. 

1871. S. E. Peck. 

CONSOLATION. 

I'm gazing far back in life's morning, 
Through the shadows that sleep on the hills. 

To the beautiful sunlight of childhood 
That lay on the valleys and rills. 

I've travelled a wearisome journey, 

I'm footsore and longing for rest; 
But I think of the glory of morning, 

And hope it may gild the far West. 

Yes, I think of that beautiful islet 

That sleeps on the bosom of Time ; 
And am straining my vision to catch but 

A glimpse of its sweet, sunny clime ! 

But mine eyes are now weary with weeping, 
And shadows have grown up between; 

So I know that I'm groping in darkness, 
Away from that beautiful scene. 

Ah, never again can the sunlight 

That sleeps on those beautiful hills 
Cheer my lone heart till it blossom, 

Or waken its musical rills. 

But sometimes I hear in the distance 

A faint sound of music so sweet ! 
And I know that behind the dark river 

There are some I am longing to meet. 



MRS. E. L. SAXON. 

THE parents of Mrs. Saxon were Virginians. She was born in 
Tennessee in 1832. The following year her father moved to 
Alabama. Her mother lived little over a year in her new home. 
Mrs. Saxon came thus early under the especial care and training of 
her father, a man well read in ancient and modern literature, and 
combining with this thoroughly practical ideas and a love of nature. 
He early imbued his youthful charge with his man's love of reading, 
and his favorite works soon became her favorites. With him she read, 
rode, and hunted : her out-door life in the forests of Alabama was free 
and untrammelled, as was her in-door mental one. In the domains of 
thought, her peculiar training served to feed the flames of a vivid im- 
agination, and the practical and ideal met in her, harmonious as night 
and day. 

"Her father wrapped his little daughter 
In his large man's doublet, 
Careless if it fit or no." 

This masculine teaching never for a moment detracted from her true 
feminine dignity, only giving grace of action and vigor of body and 
intellect. In addition to her father's teaching, she shared the instruc- 
tion of village schools until the age of fourteen, when she was sent to 
the school of Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, then teaching in Alabama. 
Mrs. Saxon married, at the age of sixteen, Mr. Lydell Saxon, of South 
Carolina. 

She had written prose sketches and some creditable poetry before 
her marriage. She contributed poems and sketches to the "Amer- 
ican Courier " (Philadelphia), over the signature of " Annot Lyle," 
which was her maiden name. She also published under various 
names ; and several long stories, viz., " Judith," " Life's Changes," 
" The Trials of an Orphan," etc., appeared over her own name in the 
"Columbia Banner," of South Carolina, edited by Dr. R. W. Gibbs. 
About the same time she published, in the " Louisville Courier," 
several serial stories, which were well received. 
294 



E. L. SAXON. 295 

Few Southern writers had fairer prospects of success, but near this 
time domestic afflictions caused her to cease publishing. 

During the last twelve or fourteen years she has lived in New York, 
Memphis, Mobile, and now resides in New Orleans. This has given 
her a varied experience, not ud profitable to her observing mind. She 
has in her portfolio a large amount of MSS. 

Within the last two years she has regularly contributed, prose and 
poetry, to the New Orleans " Picayune " and " Times," over the sig- 
nature " E. L. S." She has in MS. a novel, which, we think, must 
establish her claims as an author beyond all dispute. Her style of 
writing is simple and direct, mostly from the plane of feeling, which 
in all cases is power, touching the heart and inspiring love for the 
author. 

On her mother's side, Mrs. Saxon is related to Miss Mollie E. 
Moore, of Texas. Mrs. Saxon has ever been the centre of her home 
circle, never seeking the outside -world, and in her charming family 
she finds her reward. 

1870. , * 

MY VINE. 

My vine I planted in the days 

When April's tears fell soft and warm — 
Our love was in its blooming time, 

And life was in its morning charm. 
It grew so fast, the tendrils strong 

Crept up and round the lattice clung, 
Shading the little cosy bench 

O'er which my gay canary hung. 

Oh, there you whispered words of love — 

Told all you meant to do for me ; 
Called me all pet names, "child and dove," 

Wove bright threads in my destiny. 
I was a silly, simple child — 

All girls are foolish when they love — 
I only looked, believed, and smiled, 

And told how faithful I would prove. 

I loved you, and I wore my heart 
Careless, that all the world should see 

I did not know the coy, sweet art 
To hold in thrall a man like thee. 



296 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

The autumn days have dulled the green 
That gave my vine its beauty rare, 

And doubts have come our hearts between 
Since last we sat together there. 

Next spring will give the vine its green, 

Send all its beauty back once more; 
"Will nature bless her other child, 

And her lost girlish dreams restore? 
The same buds never bloom again, 

But others just as fair will spring — 
Kind nature learns her children well, 

Some vine about my life will cling. 



S. S. CRUTE. 

MRS. SALLIE SPOTSWOOD CRUTE, in 1871, announced for 
publication, by subscription, a volume entitled " Buds from the 
Wreath of Memory." Mrs. Crute is a native and resident of Hunts- 
ville, Ala., only daughter of Dr. John C. Spotswood, an old citizen 
of that city. 

ANNA FREDAIR. 

MINOR PLACE," a novel, by "Anna Fredair." New York. E. 
J. Hale & Son. 1869. 
Miss Walker, of Tuscaloosa, was the author of this book. 



D^C 



CAROLINE THERESA BRANCH. 

MRS. BRANCH, younger daughter of Marcellus N. and Caroline 
Lee Hentz, was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, in December, 1833. 
Her mother's name will at once be recognized as " a household word " 
in the South. Caroline, reared in a literary circle, found herself an 



BETTIE KEYES HUNTER. 297 

author, in print, in early girlhood; and as she grew to womanhood, 
her pen was enlisted in adorning the pages of the most popular literary 
journals with novelettes, etc. In 1858, Miss Hentz was married to 
the Rev. James O. Branch ; and, as the wife of a faithful itinerant 
Methodist minister, going about doing the Master's work, she has been 
denied that leisure for the use of her pen, and many of those surround- 
ings which stimulate and assist literary labor, that a settled home-life 
would have afforded. Hence, unfortunately, she has not put forth her 
strength in the service of letters, but has made herself rich instead 
in that " good name " as a wife and mother which the wise man pro- 
nounces the truest wealth. 

Mrs. Branch's productions are of such a character that it is difficult 
to make extracts from them, without giving the barest fragments and 
breaking up their unity. 

She is at this time (1871) residing at Macon, Ga. 

Rev. Dr. Myers. 



BETTIE KEYES HUNTER. 

MRS. HUNTER'S tales and verses, published in the New Orleans 
" Picayune," Baltimore " Home Journal," and other periodicals, 
display considerable talent. She is the daughter of Colonel Wash- 
ington Keyes, who was, at the time of her birth, cashier of a bank at 
Decatur, Ala., where she was born, March 20th, 1834. Both parents 
died when Bettie was only five years old. 

Miss Keyes, at an early age, married her cousin, Joseph M. Keyes, 
of New Orleans, who died a few years afterward, leaving her with two 
daughters. In 1864, Mrs. Keyes married Mr. A. M. Hunter, of Clai- 
borne County, Mississippi. Her residence is near Grand Gulf. 

Mrs. Hunter's most noted publication is "A Letter addressed to Mrs. 
Woodhull," in the name of the " Women of the South," to whom she 
had appealed to clamor for the right of suffrage. 

We append one of Mrs. Hunter's poems. 

A MOTHER'S WISH. 

Come tune, my muse, thy sweetest lyre, 
And let its richest music swell: 



298 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Within me, like Promethean fire, 

Are burning thoughts I cannot quell ! 

For I would rend the misty veil 
That shrouds my children's future path; 

Although perhaps my cheeks would pale 
At visions which that vista hath! 

Two gentle girls, whose childish brow, 

Unwrinkled, fair, and innocent, 
I fain would keep as smooth as now, 

If wishes were not impotent. 
I would that I their fragile bark 

Might steer from all life's dangerous shoals, 
Whereon, when hope's light groweth dark, 

Are wrecked so many human souls. 

I cannot bear to think there lies 

Deep fountains of misfortune's tears 
Within my darling's sweet blue eyes, 

To be unsealed in future years; 
O'er wasted hopes and pain to see 

Their heart's rich treasure cast away, 
And love's bright glow a mockery, 

Like glist'ning seaweed wet with spray ! 

Oh, would my eyes might shed their tears, 

And would my heart their griefs might bear! 
I'd shield them through their future years 

From every woe, from every care ! 
My gentle Zella's soft brown hair 

Should never grow less dark than now; 
And darling Lillie's curls so fair 

Should never silver o'er her brow ! 

It may not be ! — however kind 

Our yearning hearts, God gives to each 
A different fate; nor can we find 

A way through other lives to reach. 
We can but pray hope's beacon light 

Shall never o'er life's sea grow dim ; 
And strive to guide our own course right. 

Then trust the rest in faith to Him! 




MISSISSIPPI. 



SALLIE ADA VANCE. 

ALLIE ADA EEEDY was born in Northern Alabama 
Captain James Reedy, her father, removed to Lexington, 
Mississippi, during her infancy. 
Miss Reedy was early inclined to study ; was passionately 
fond of reading, and had the advantage of careful and judicious culture. 

While a child in years, she began to write in verse, and her early 
poems exhibit the same thoughtful tone, the same impassioned ten- 
derness which can be seen, ripened and refined, in her later writings. 

In 1860, her poems, which had appeared from time to time in the 
various periodicals of the South, were collected for publication in book- 
form. The " war " caused the idea to be abandoned for more auspi- 
cious times. 

In 1865, about the close of the war, Miss Reedy entered upon a new 
phase of womanhood : she was married to Mr. Vance, and resided in 
Lexington, the home of her childhood. 

The character of Mrs. Vance's poetry is subjective — her thoughts 
most frequently introverted — finding their field of research in the in- 
finitely varied human heart. Yet she feels the charm of nature with 
all a poet's sensitive organization ; and she describes the beauty of 
earth, sky, and ocean with the vivid truthfulness of an appreciative 
as well as imaginative mind. Her melody of versification is remark- 
able. Her thoughts ripple away into rhyme so easily that we per- 
ceive it to be their natural vehicle. Her words are always musical 
and well chosen. 

But there are depths in her nature which have not been stirred : 
there are chords which have not been sounded. When these have been 
awakened by the hand of a larger experience, we shall see the poetry 
of Mrs. Vance take a w T ider range — a deeper and more earnest tone. 

She has recently finished a poem, longer than any she ever published, 
which is considered by judges to be the best she has ever written. 

299 



300 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Mrs. Vance lost her husband in December, 1868. 
" Beautiful as a poet's dream " is an old saying — but here is a 
poet's dream that is more than beautiful : 



THE TWO ANGELS. 

A boy at midnight sat alone, 

And quick throbs o'er his being stole, 
Like those to graver manhood known 

When high resolves are in the soul. 
Two winged angels softly leave 

The brightest star in all the sky, 
And one is fair as sinless Eve — 

The other has the serpent's eye. 

Now to the boy they softly glide, 

And fold their starry wings unseen, 
Then rest them, one on either side, 

And watch him as he sits between. 
Each angel holds within her hand 

A spotless scroll of purest white, 
For God has sent them with command 

To write the boy's resolves that night. 

" I will be great ! " his hot cheek burned — 

"That men shall shout in ecstasy, 
When first their wondering souls have learned 

How like the gods a man may be." 
The angel on the left hand smiled, 

And wrote it with suspended breath ; 
She knew ambition oft beguiled 

To sin and sacrifice and death. 

"I shall have foes, as greatness hath, 

Whate'er may be its brilliant sphere ; 
But I will sweep them from my path, 

Or maim their puny souls with fear." 
The angel on the left hand caught 

And wrote the proud boast with a sneer; 
The angel on the right had nought 

Upon her page but one bright tear. 

" Love, still the poet's chosen theme, 
Shall be a thing abjured by me; 



SALLIE ADA VANCE. 301 

And yet — my childhood's happiest dream 

Came to me on my mother's knee. 
My mother's knee! Why what is this 

That on my lips is trembling now? 
A prayer? I almost feel the kiss 

Her dying lips left on my brow. 

"She'd rather hear her name and mine 

In some poor creature's night-prayer told, 
Than have the proud world rear a shrine 

And write it there in burning gold." 
The angel on the left awhile 

Seemed half in doubt and half in rage; 
The other smiled a warm, bright smile 

That dried the tear upon her page. 

"I will be brave, and ask each heart 
. That faints in life to lean on mine, 
And strive to do that better part 

That makes a mortal feel divine ; 
And, if my faults should win a foe 

Eelentless through all coming time, 
I'll pity you who may not know 

Compassion makes this life sublime." 

The boy looked upward to the sky ; 

But ere his vow was halfway done, 
And ere the light passed from his eye, 

The angel on the left had flown: 
The angel on the right was there, 

And for one joyful moment stood, 
Then waved her bright wings on the air, 

And bore her message back to God. 

Very seldom, in all the range of poetry, do we find anything so 
perfect in all respects as the following gem. It is unexceptionable in 
every respect — a lesson for life, to be conned every day by those who 
would worship the good, the beautiful, and the true : 

GUAED THINE ACTION. 

When you meet with one suspected 

Of some secret deed of shame, 
And for this by all rejected 

As a thing of evil fame — 



302 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Guard thine every look and action : 
Speak no heartless word of blame ; 

For the slanderer's vile detraction 
Yet may spoil thy goodly name. 

When you meet a brow that's awing 

With its wrinkled lines of gloom, 
And a haughty step that 's drawing 

To a solitary tomb — 
Guard thine action : some great sorrow 

Made that man a spectre grim; 
And the sunset of to-morrow 

May have left thee like to him. 

When you meet with one pursuing 

Paths the lost have entered in, 
Working out his own undoing 

With his recklessness and sin — 
Think, if placed in his condition, 

Would a kind word be in vain? 
Or a look of cold suspicion 

Win thee back to truth again? 

There are spots that bear no flowers — 

Not because the soil is bad; 
But that summer's gentle showers 

Never made their bosoms glad : 
Better have an act that's kindly 

Treated sometimes with disdain, 
Than, by judging others blindly, 

Doom the innocent to pain. 
1869. M. E. B. 




r^^vSSr^' 



MES. MARY STANFORD. 

"Ah, the most loved are they of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice." 

ALTHOUGH few of Mrs. Stanford's productions have reached the 
public eye, her genius has long been acknowledged and admired 
by a large circle of friends. Her poetic faculty was a gift of nature, 
which received culture in her early education in the nunnery, near 
Bardstown, Kentucky. Under the oaks and magnolias of Claiborne 
County, Mississippi, she was born, and her maiden name of Mary 
Patterson will thrill the hearts and memories of many old associates 
and contemporaries. Her girlhood was passed amid scenes of gayety 
and pleasure ; her ready wit, vivacity, and poetic taste, together with 
a graceful, petite physique, making her a charming companion and 
ornament to society. Her parents died when she was very young, 
leaving her two brothers and herself, and their estate, to the care of 
a relative. 

Mrs. Stanford was twice married and widowed. An only son was 
the fruit of her first marriage; and in that son she " lived, moved, aud 
had her being." " The ocean to the river of her thoughts," he grew 
to be an idol, worshipped with a devotion few mothers have given 
their offspring. He was her inspiration, the polar star of her life. 

Freely were her private interests sacrificed in raising and equipping 
a battery, of which her son was first lieutenant, and subsequently 
captain ; and no more manly, noble, and splendid talent was given the 
cause of the South, than when Ferdinand Claiborxe enlisted, and 
bravely fought and fell, a martyr to that cause, leaving in the mem- 
ory of his mother and countrymen a monument of honor and chiv- 
alry more bright and enduring than the marble erected by his com- 
rades on the spot where he fell. And this little tablet, pure and 
white and glistening, embowered in roses, and embalmed by a mother's 
daily kisses and tears, tells to the lingerer in the quiet little ceme- 
tery of Port Gibson the same history it told at the fortifications of 
Vicksburg, where, like a sentinel at his post, it guarded the lonely 
mound where a martyred hero slept. 

303 



304 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OP THE SOUTH. 

Mrs. Stanford was for many years a resident of New Orleans. 
While the guns at Fort Sumter were still reverberating in our hearts, 
she pressed the farewell kisses 'on the lips of her son, from whom she 
had never been separated. 

About this period, Mrs. Stanford contributed several lively tales of 
life in the Crescent City, and poems to the " Southern Monthly," pub- 
lished in Memphis. 

Says she: "My writings are only to be considered for the idolatrous 
love that inspires them." And few mothers in our land can read her 
" lines " without deep feeling. 

When New Orleans fell, feeling that by remaining there she could 
no longer guard and protect her son's pecuniary interests, she felt 
that the one thing left for her to do was to find her child, to be where 
she might at an instant's notice seek him. She had a motherless niece 
to care for; and not wishing to proceed on a wild, blind search for her 
boy, she went to the old home of her girlhood, (Port Gibson,) and 
found rest and sympathy with those who had loved her in the long- 
ago. For weeks she had not heard from her son, until she reached 
this place, and some returning soldiers to)d her of his whereabouts. 
When he wrote to her, he forbade her attempting to join him, urging 
her to remain with her old friends, " and perhaps they might meet 
again — perhaps he might be ordered farther South — but he could not 
ask for a furlough." 

At last, the mother's patient waiting was rewarded. Her son, who 
had been for over a year in East Tennessee, and in Kentucky with 
General Bragg, was ordered to Vicksburg with General Stevenson's 
Division — ordered where his mother waited for him. Need'we say 
that the mother was soon with her son ? Some months before this, 
finding her resources fail, being able to get nothing from New Orleans, 
she had opened a school for the support of her niece and self, that she 
might not take from her son, and this was in successful operation when 
she visited him. She found him all that a mother's loving heart could 
hope or pray for, but so wedded to his duties, so proud of the noble 
battery he commanded, that again, as he had done before, he kissed 
her and blessed her, and gave her to another's charge, and left her, to go 
where she could not follow. The long siege of Vicksburg succeeded. 

What the year is to a mother, what it is to the country, is well 
told to the heart, in these few artless, plain verses : 



MARY STANFORD. 305 



% MY NEW-YEAR'S PRAYER. 

New-Year's Day ! Alas ! the New- Year's days 
That stalk like troubled ghosts before my sight, 

From happy youth, through weary years, till now, 
When my life's sun must soon be lost in night, 

And I, in death's untroubled, tranquil sleep, 

Shall learn how sweet it is to cease to weep ! 

New -Year's Day ! Yes, I remember one — 

The day I watched a little rosy face 
Of six months old, with dimpling smiles 

Peep out from under folds of silk and lace : 
That face, the sweetest to a mother's eyes 
That ever made of earth a paradise. 

And then another New- Year I recall, 

Bringing sweet prattlings I so loved to hear ; 

The only music I could understand, 

The only notes that ever charmed my ear, 

Save th' accompaniment to this sweet song — 

The steps that bore my tottering boy along. 

Then, New- Year's days in numbers pass me by, 
Bearing new beauties both to heart and mind, 

And adding graces to the manly form — 
I did not wonder in the three to find 

All I once hoped to see united there — 

My son's young promise was so passing fair. 

But where, in this dark, cheerless New-Year's day, 
In thy full manhood, must I look for thee ? 

I shall not find in that worn face such smiles 
As dimpled through the folds of lace for me ; 

And stern, harsh lines are on the once smooth brow, 

Babe so beloved ! — a man and soldier now ! 

Ah ! since thy mother's arms were round thee last, 

Since thou wert folded to thy mother's breast, 
Since her appealing voice hath met thine ear, 
Since her last kisses on thy lips were prest, 
My son, my darling, what has chanced to thee ? 
Loving as then wilt thou return to me ? 
39 



306 LIVING FEMALE WKITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Ghosts of the New Years ! with them come the hopes 
That made the promise of thy youth more fair, 

Whispering how thy manhood's love would guard 
A mother's age from every grief and care. 

How canst thou be to me this guard and shield, 

Thou — in constant change from tent to battle-field ? 

Ghosts of the New Years, visit him to-day, 
My baby once ! — my country's soldier now ! 

Paint to his memory the unselfish love 

That, since a mother's lips first touched his brow, 

Till now, when such despairing words are said, 

A mother's heart has showered on his head. 

Spirit of to-day ! breathe in his ear the prayers 
That day and night ascend on high for him ; 

Unceasing, hopeful, trustful, brave and strong ! 
Earth's dreams delude — its brightest hopes grow dim — 

But from the ruins soars, fresh, undefiled, 

The mother' s prayer — " God bless and save my child." 

When the siege of Vieksburg was over, and for weeks after, there 
was no one hardy enough to tell her "she was childless ! " Weeks of 
darkness came, after this; but there was one thing to live for — to 
find the grave of her son.- Once more, for one night the same roof 
sheltered mother and son — he in his coffin, into which she dared not 
look ! And through the Federal army, and down the river, and amid 
perils and sufferings, and hardships that it is a wonder, now, she could 
ever endure, she brought her darling to Port Gibson — there, to live 
and die beside him — to be buried in his grave — in his arms, if it 
could be. 

Mrs. Stanford has a collection of her tales" and poems in preparation 
in book-form, to be sold by subscription. 

1870. 



MRS. S. B. COX. 

MRS. COX, whose maiden name was Hughes, was born in War- 
ren County, Mississippi, five miles from Vicksburg. Her par- 
ents were Virginians, but adopted Alabama as their home, where her 
father, Judge Beverley Hughes, presided at the bar with distinction. 
They removed to Mississippi six months before the birth of the subject 
of this sketch, and eighteen months before the death of her father. A 
lady friend says : " Unfortunately for Miss Hughes, in the death of 
her father she lost the hand which would have been the fashioning 
and guiding power of her life." 

Her mother married a second time — a man chilling in his manner — 
and her childhood passed without one genial ray of warmth to expand 
and open the hidden nature within her, save rare interviews with her 
mother, full of love and tenderness, and usually embracing one theme 
that was exhaustless — the virtues and graces of her father. Says 
Mrs. Cox, alluding to this : 

" These conversations about my father were so colored by the admiration 
of a devoted wife, that he alone seemed to fill my idea of God's nobleman, 
and early became the inspiration of my life. To be worthy of being his 
daughter, enlisted all my faculties in every effort I made for good; no temp- 
tation beset me that I was not fortified against it by the thought, that, to 
yield to it would be unworthy the daughter of my father. My successes at 
school were alike due to this single inspiration of my life." 

Miss Hughes was married very young — fourteen years and three 
months old on her wedding-day. Her life became very checkered: at 
the age of twenty-eight, when life is bright and full of joyousness to 
many, she became hopelessly bedridden. The trials of her life were 
numerous; but, to use her own language — breathings of the mother: 
"I was a mother, and this bore me up to live and labor for the im- 
mortal ones God had intrusted to my care." 

For eight years she could not take a step, or even stand alone ; and 
she says : 

"Yet, amid all, God was very good in preserving my mind clear, and 

307 



308 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

strengthening my will to conquer every repining for myself, and devote my 
remaining energies to the training and cultivation of my four little daugh- 
ters. Up to the opening of the war, my world was found in these, my life 
centred in them; but a mightier appeal thrilled my being; my country 
called, and my whole heart responded. I felt that even the claim of my 
children was secondary to it, and devoted my time, my purse, and my 
strength, without reserve, to the sick of the Confederate army." 

A friend, who is indebted to an eye-witness for his information, says : 

"At one time the enemy shelled the hospital, which was near her residence. 
Her house, though within reach, was out of range of their guns, and she 
opened her doors to the inmates of the hospital, and for several weeks there 
were three hundred soldiers with her." 

At the raising of the siege, her means were exhausted ; and at the 
commencement of the second siege, General M. L. Smith informed her 
that her house had fallen within the line of fortifications, and would 
have to be destroyed. The Father seems strangely to provide for his 
creatures in the very darkest moments of their lives. Just at this 
crisis with Mrs. Cox, homeless and without money, her husband was 
discharged from active duty on account of failing health, and returned 
from Virginia in time to prevent her despairing, if such a hopeful 
mind as that of Mrs. Cox can be looked upon as " giving up." Her 
husband applied for and obtained government employment in the 
Trans-Mississippi Department, and they removed to Shreveport. The 
reaction from active excitement to comparative quiet prostrated Mrs. 
Cox again entirely to bed, and thus it was with her until the news of 
the fall of Vicksburg fell like a leaden weight upon her. Says she : 

" For the first time, woe took the place of full confidence, and never again 
was the bow of hope unclouded in my heart ; yet when the fall of the Con- 
federacy was told to me, I reeled and staggered under the blow, not aware 
for weeks if my vitality would survive it." 

The superior facilities to be found in the public schools of New 
Orleans for educating their daughters, decided Mr. and Mrs. Cox to 
make that city their home. They were scantily supplied with the 
" world's goods." Mr. Cox, over fifty years of age, without a son to 
assist him, had to begin anew the world, and for nearly two years 
they struggled for the necessaries of life — "a struggle such as cannot 
be conceived of unless felt." 

Mrs. Cox had contributed to the papers of Vicksburg and Shreve- 
port, among other articles, several appeals to the Southern people upon 



s. b. cox. 309 

subjects pertaining to the war. These were published over the nom de 
plume of " Beverley." Now, in the terrible strait of poverty, the idea 
of writing for money came to her. Says she : " I caught at it as a drown- 
ing man clutches at a straw, and almost as hopelessly and desperately. 
Without an introduction to the press of New Orleans, I made my way 
into the journals." A writer in the " Crescent " thus refers to her : 

11 We think a woman, even an invalid, who can neither sit in anything 
but a robe de ckambre, nor stand long enough to have her hair frizzed, like 
our own ' Beverley ; ' whose pathos moves to tears ; whose philosophy makes 
us proud of our own sex ; whose wit and sarcasms few would wish to en- 
counter ; whose faith has for years irradiated her sick-chamber with a hal- 
lowed light, is infinitely superior to a lady whose highest acquisitions are 
moire-antiques, thule, coiffures, tinsel, or even diamonds ; whose resources for 
happiness are theatres, masquerades, and dancing ; whose faith exhibits itself 
in a few Lenten visits to church ; whose self-abnegation and humiliation are the 
changing from one luxurious diet to another perhaps a little more delicate." 

In the Spring of 1869, Mrs. Cox lost the use of her right hand and 
arm from paralysis, — her physician ascribing it to the incessant writing 
for weeks to meet her engagements, for she supported her family with 
her brain-work. 

Mrs. Cox continues to contribute to the various papers of New 
Orleans, and to several Northern journals, particularly to the Sunday 
edition of the " Times " newspaper, to which she is a regular contrib- 
utor to each issue. A daughter contributes to the last-named journal 
under signature of Beverley, Jr. 

1871. 



SPIRIT-WHISPEEINGS. 



Philosophy stands up in the severe, grave dignity of truth, and demands 
demonstrable facts in all things. But is there nothing within us, to the 
intellect vague, shadowy, and undefined, which may not be reasoned upon, 
yet is a feeling, a consciousness from which we may reason and deduce facts 
as clearly as from anything material ? Surely this is evident to all. 

We may draw from every created thing or being an undeniable evidence 
of a Great First Cause or Creator. From the delicate violet, which opens its 
beautiful petals out upon the bosom of the brown earth, up to the dewy 
kisses of the night-winds; to the stone-girt mountain, which, from its burn- 
ing caldron of boiling lava, hurls forth destruction and death for miles 
around ; from the tiny insect to his own image in man, — all proclaim most 
unmistakably the existence of a God, the Creator of all things, and the Buler 
of his creation. But perhaps the most satisfying evidence to man is the 
demand in his own being for a God — that universal reaching out of the 
soul which is found in the breast of the most benighted heathen. 



310 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Of the inspiration of the Bible, but slight evidence is given by historians 
since the advent of the Saviour ; but it is when we compare its high and 
holy truths with the self-evident facts of man's life, that we find the first 
positive proof which is apt to be taken hold of by man. Let the unpreju- 
diced thinker turn his mind in upon his own soul, and compare its aspira- 
tions and its longings with the truths of the Bible, and therefrom will he 
draw evidence beyond refutation; and therein is the mystical chain of spirit 
with spirit ; that half-hidden, half-defined something which baffles the lore 
of philosophy, yet enchants and delights man. 

Trouble upon trouble enters in upon the heart of man ; care upon care 
silvers the dark threads, and bends the head low upon the stooped shoulders ; 
the weary, aching thought of the brain, which brings no fruition ; the half- 
requited labor, the heart-sickening disappointment in friendship and love ; 
and man grows weary and faint, and cries out for the waters of oblivion to 
sweep over his soul in this dark hour of woe and despair. Then comes the 
small, still voice of the Spirit, and, whispers : "All of earth is passing away, 
and heaven is eternal ! " 

Death lays its icy touch upon our idol, and our heart is torn until every 
fibre is bleeding out its own vitality, and reason staggers upon its throne. 
Then whispers the Spirit : " Be still, and rest in the hands of thy God." It 
is only a little while sooner than you that -the spirit has bid adieu to the 
troubles of life. 

A little white bird wafted its downward way from paradise, and, finding 
its tiny, delicate form growing cold and numb in this bleak world's grasp, 
sought refuge in my quiet home — for a few brief hours folded its snowy 
wings gently and lovingly upon my breast ; but though I nestled it warmly 
within my bosom, and wooed it to linger with me, it gave a few farewell 
moans, and, softly gliding from its earthly casket, took its returning flight to 
paradise. Thus came and went our little babe. But a cell had been opened 
up in our hearts for love of her ; and though we consigned to the dark earth 
that beautiful waxen form of purest whiteness, and other children have been 
born to us, love for her is still warm within my heart. That heart beats 
still for the angel one. Her little baby form, her eyes of heavenly blue, her 
mouth of sweetest mould, are yet fresh within my memory. Ah ! who can 
doubt that we two will meet again ? My spirit whispers that my heart- 
throbs are not for nought, but will beat on throughout eternal ages. 

Ah! yes, let us listen to these sweet whisperings of the Spirit, and they 
will breathe into our souls strength to conquer, strength to bear. Listen to 
them, confide in them, and they will rob death .of its sting, and open out to us 
a great, broad vista of ages of eternal bliss. Wife, by the death-bed of thy 
husband ; mother, by thy dead child, take comfort from it to hush thy grief. 

There is a Spirit whispering of warning and hope to the young man in a 
career of sin and profligacy, bidding him pause, reflect, and follow its 
promptings. 



ELIZA J. POITEVENT. 311 

To the old man tottering upon the verge of a dishonored grave, it says : 
" Even now listen to me." 

Frail woman, in thy fall and degradation, listen to it ; hush it not in thy 
poor, sin-stained soul. When all the world turn from thee, and only sin 
and shame clasp hands with thee, it will prove thy best friend. It is sent to 
such as thee by God. 



ELIZA J. POITEVENT. 

PEARL RIVERS, as by her pseudonym is the " sweet singer " best 
known, takes her name from that beautiful stream, Pearl River, 
near the banks of which she was born. 

Miss Poitevent is a maiden, hardly of adult years ; the daughter of 
Captain W. J. Poitevent, a builder and owner of steamboats, and a 
manufacturer of lumber at Gainesville, on that river, about twenty- 
five miles across the plain from the Bay of St. Louis, which is now, as 
Gainesville formerly was, the seat of justice of Hancock County, Mis- 
sissippi. 

On her father's side, Miss Poitevent is of French descent ; on the 
mother's, she is connected with the Russ family — of the Florida par- 
ishes of Louisiana and Southeastern Mississippi. Shortly after the 
birth of Eliza, her mother's health was so delicate that she was 
advised by her physician to travel, and it was decided that the 
" babe " should be left with her aunt. Mrs. Leonard Kimball. When 
Mrs. Poitevent returned, she found her babe, a healthy, rosy little 
girl, taking her first steps — who did not want to leave her aunt for 
her mother. Mrs. Kimball was childless, and had become so much 
attached to "little Pearl," that she earnestly entreated that she mio-bt 
be left with her. It was finally decided that " Pearl " should remain 
with her aunt. 

And on the banks of the Hobolochitto, with her aunt and uncle, 
" Pearl Rivers " spent her pure and happy childhood. She had no 
playmates, and roamed the meadows and fields in search of com- 
panions. Theie was not a narrow path that trailed its way through 
the dense forest of pines that she did not know; and flowers, birds, and 
insects were more than flowers, birds, and insects to her. They were 
her friends and companions, and she* talked to them and sang with 
them through many a happy day. 



312 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

When thirteen years of age, Pearl was sent to the Amite Female 
Seminary, in Amite County, Miss., where her many merry pranks 
soon won for her the name of "the wildest girl in school." She gradu- 
ated at the age of " sweet sixteen," excelling in composition. 

A stanch " little rebel," her first attempt at verse was to write 
patriotic words to several patriotic airs, which she sang to a circle of 
not critical, but admiring friends. 

It was not until the " first year of the war " that any of her pro- 
ductions appeared in print. 

Seeing a copy of "The South," a weekly paper published in New 
Orleans by John W. Overall, Esq., she was much pleased with the 
bold, dashing editorials, and sent several of her poems to him, trem- 
bling at the boldness of the step. Her poems were not only published, 
but were favorably noticed, and a friendly, encouraging letter from 
Mr. Overall followed. She received little or no encouragement from 
the members of her own family, and she considers that she owes much 
to her first literary friend and patient critic, John W. Overall, who 
introduced her to the public. 

Since that time, her gift of song has won her many appreciative 
friends among the literati of our country, but she looks back with 
grateful remembrance to the one who caught the first, faint, trembling 
notes of her lyre. 

After the discontinuance of "The South," " Pearl Rivers" contrib- 
uted to the " New Orleans Sunday Times," and now contributes to the 
" Picayune," " New York Home Journal," and other journals. 

A lady who knows her, says, " She always carries her scrap-book 
and pencil with her, and writes at all times." 

She is one of Nature's sweetest poets, and as pure-hearted as the 
blue river from which she takes her name — a w^ild-wood warbler, 
knowing how to sing of birds and flowers and flowing brooks, and all 
things beautiful. 

Wm. Hand Browne, the critic, says : " When larger experience and 
opportunities of culture have increased her knowledge and widened her 
sympathies — when she has learned the tragic as well as the sportive 
side of human life — w T e doubt not that Miss Poitevent will produce 
poetry which even the most rigid critic will pronounce worthy of the 
name." 



ELIZA J. POITEVENT. 



A CHIRP FEOM MOTHER ROBIN. 

See yon little Mother Robin, 

Sitting on her humble nest: 
Learn from her my poem-lesson ; 

Nature's teachers are the best. 

Other nests are lined more softly — 
Larger nests than hers she sees; 

Other nests are swinging higher 
In the summer's gentle breeze; — 

But the Robin is contented ; 

Mine is warm enough, she says — 
Large enough to hold my birdies 

Through their tender nesting-days. 

Smaller cradle, warmer cover ! 

For my little ones, she sings ; 
Four there are, but see how snugly 

They are tucked beneath my wings. 

And I envy not my neighbors, 

Redbird, Bluebird, Lark, or Thrush ; 

For the breeze that rocks the tree-tops 
Rocks my cradle in the bush. 

And the same bright sunshine warms me 
By the same kind hand I 'm fed ; 

With the same green earth around me, 
And the same sky overhead. 

Though my dress is something plainer 
Than my cousin's, Madame Red ; 

Though I have no vest of crimson, 
And no gay hood on my head; — ■ 

Still, my robe of graver colors 
Suits my station and my nest ; 

And the Master knows what costume 
Would become a Robin best." 



40 



314 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



THE EOYAL CAVALCADE. 

Spring is coming, Spring is coming, 
Through the arch of Pleasant Days, 

With the harps of all her minstrels 
Tuned to warble forth her praise. 

In her rosy car of Pleasure, 
Drawn by nimble-footed Hours, 

With a royal guard of Sunbeams, 

And a host of white-plumed Flowers, 

From the busy Court of Nature 
Eides the fair young Queen in state, 

O'er the road of Perfect Weather, 
Leading down to Summer Gate. 

Brave old March rides proudly forward, 
With her heralds, Wind and Bain ; 

He will plant her standard firmly 
On King Winter's bleak domain. 

Young Lord Zephyr fans her gently, 
And Sir Dewdrop's diamonds shine ; 

Lady May and Lady April 
By her Majesty recline. 

Lady April's face is tearful, 

And she pouts and frets the while , 
But her lips will part with laughter 

Ere she rides another mile. 

Lady May is blushing deeply, 
As she fits her rosy gloves; 

She is dreaming of the meeting 
With her waiting Poet-loves. 

Over meadow, hill and valley 
Winds the Eoyal Cavalcade, 

And, behind, green leaves are springing 
In the tracks the car-wheels made. 

And her Majesty rides slowly 
Through the humble State of Grass, 



MAEY W. LOUGHBOROUGH. 315 

Speaking kindly to the Peasants 
As they crowd to see her pass. 

In the corners of the fences 

Hide the little Daisy-spies, 
Peeping shyly through the bushes, 

Full of childish, glad surprise; 

And her gentle Maids of Honor, 

Modest Violets, are seen 
In their gala-dresses waiting, 

By the road-side, for their Queen. 

By her own bright light of Beauty 

Does she travel through the day; 
And at night her Glowworm Footmen 

With their lanterns guide the way. 

She is coming, nearer ! nearer ! 

Hark the sound of chariot-wheels ! 
Fly to welcome her, young minstrel, 

Sing the joy your spirit feels. 



MARY W. LOUGHBOROUGH 

IS the author of " My Cave Life in Vicksburg," published by 
D. Appleton & Co., New York, 1867. A sprightly and well- 
written book, full of graphic and interesting pictures of scenes within 
the city of Vicksburg during the " siege." 

She has also contributed to various magazines — generally anony- 
mously. Her home is now, I believe, St. Louis. 

1868. 




FLOBIM. 



MARY E. BRYAN. 




^HERE is not a name among the literary stars of the "South- 
land " that fills a warmer place in every heart than that of 
Mary E. Bryan. Tastes differ about literature as about 
everything else; but there are somethings which challenge 
the universal admiration of mankind: some faces — some forms — as 
the "Venus de Medicis"and the "Apollo Belvidere" — and some 
books, although the latter are most rare. Mrs. Bryan comes as near 
filling this exclusive niche in the gallery of letters as any woman of 
her age who ever wrote. She does not dazzle, like the fitful light of 
the "Borealis race," nor sparkle like sunset on a summer sea — neither 
does she charm us by the smoothness and polish of her style ; but she 
manages to creep into the hearts of her readers, as few young writers 
have ever done. This comes of her own earnestness — that deep, 
thrilling earnestness which marks all her writings, and especially her 
poetry. There her thoughts well up fresh and warm from the depths 
of a passionate heart, and never fail to meet a responsive throb in the 
hearts of her readers. 



" Bryan — hers the words that glisten, 

Opal gems of sunlit rain ! 
So much the woman, you may listen 

Heart-beats pulsing in her brain ! 
She upon her songs has won 

Hybla's honey undistilled ; 
And ' from wine-vats of the sun,' 
With bright nectar overrun, 

Her urns of eloquence are filled ! " * 

She is a poetess by nature. Largely endowed with that sense of the 
beautiful, which Poe called " an immortal instinct deep within the 



* Mrs. L. Virginia French. 



316 



MARY E. BRYAN. 317 

spirit of man," she gives us glimpses of the loveliness which lies 
beyond the common sight, and " whose very elements, perhaps, apper- 
tain to eternity alone." 

Mrs. Bryan has taken no care of her literary fame; she has been at 
no pains whatever to extend it. She has scattered the brilliant pro- 
ductions of her intellect hither and thither among the periodicals of 
the South, as a tree flings its superabundant blossoms to the breeze ; 
and she has taken no thought of them afterward. Whatever she 
writes, she finishes with care, being led to do so out of respect and 
love for her profession ; but when written and sent to the press, it is 
forgotten — scarcely even being read over by her after its publication. 
To one who has studied her closely, the reason of this is obvious. 
Mrs. Bryan possesses true genius — hers is the real artist-feeling, 
which judges of the attained by the attempted ; and nobly as she 
writes, she has written nothing to satisfy her own high-placed ideal — 
nothing that seems "worthy of her hope and aim more highly 
mated." 

Mrs. Bryan is a native of Florida — daughter of Major John D. 
Edwards, an early settler of that State, and among the first and most 
honored members of its Legislature. Both on the paternal and mater- 
nal sides, she belongs to excellent and honorable families. Her mother, 
whose maiden name was Houghton, was herself an accomplished and 
talented lady. She lived in retirement, devoting her time principally 
to the education of her daughter. Mrs. Edwards was a charming 
woman and model mother. She made herself the companion of her 
daughters, (three in number,) won their confidence by her forbearing 
gentleness, and sympathy with their little cares, thoughts, and aspira- 
tions. She was never too much engaged to answer their inquiries, or 
give them any information they desired. Mary's mind opened early — 
too early, perhaps, for a cheerful and healthy youth. While other 
children played with their dolls, she roamed through the beautiful 
solitudes around her home, or wandered alone on the shores of the 
beautiful Gulf, where her parents were accustomed to spend their 
summers — her mind filled with dreams and yearnings that bewildered 
her by their vagueness. She discovered in part what these yearnings 
meant, when, at the age of ten years, she was sent on a visit to her 
aunt, Mrs. Julia McBride, so well known in Florida for her piety and 
philanthropy. The family of this aunt (her husband and a noble 
group of grown-up sons and daughters) lay at rest in the church-yard 



318 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

on a neighboring hill ; and but for the occasional companionship of 
her brother, the lady lived alone. Mary could wander at will in her 
poetic reveries through the grOves of orange and crape myrtle that 
embowered " Salubrity," and through the wide old gardens, scattered 
over with half ruined summer-houses, and enclosed by palings hung 
With the Multiflora and Cherokee Rose. She was never lonely; for, as 
she has written since : 

"The poet never is alone; 

The stars, the breeze, the flowers, 
All lovely things, his kindred are 
And charm his loneliest hours." 

But this insensate companionship did not satisfy. She longed for 
more intelligent teachers, with a vague yearning, which she did not 
comprehend, until one day she chanced to gain access to the library 
of her uncle — Col. R. B. Houghton — who was absent on professional 
duties. It was the opening of a fairy world to the imaginative mind 
of the child. In that shadowy, green-curtained library-room, with 
the orange-branches brushing against the window-panes, she entered 
upon a new life. Her reading had been hitherto confined to her text- 
books, and now she revelled in the poetry of the masters, and in ro- 
mances of another age. Much of what she read she understood through 
her mind's early development, no less than through the intuition of 
genius ; and what her young reason could not fathom was absorbed 
by feeling and imagination, as one catches the tune of a song, though 
it is sung too far off for the words to be understood. 

She read as a gifted child would do — losing her own personality in 
that of the characters delineated, feeling every emotion as though it 
were a personal experience, thrilling over deeds of heroism, shuddering 
over those of crime, burning with indignation as she read of cruelty 
and injustice, and weeping passionately over the pictures of wrong 
and suffering and undeserved doom. She mused and dreamed con- 
tinually over the revelations thus suddenly opened to her. None 
guessed what influences were moulding the mind of the precocious 
child. 

Could they not read the secret in her dreamy eyes and abstracted 
manner? 

Her uncle did so when he returned home, and he closed his library- 
doors resolutely against the little, pale, wistful face. 



MARY E. BRYAN. 319 

Years after, in the prime of her womanhood, she declared to him* 
that those hours of stolen communion with the " spirits of the libra- 
ry " were more a blessing than a bane. Perhaps they were — perhaps 
it was to these she owed the early maturity of her mind and the vari- 
ety of her style. 

At eleven years old, she was sent to a boarding-school in Thomas- 
ville, Georgia. Here the shy little recluse, who had been at home 
among the "stately-stepping fancies" conjured up from the pages of 
romance and history, experienced a shrinking timidity when brought 
into intimate contact with girls of her own age. To her surprise she 
found herself far in advance of these in her studies — so efficient had 
been her mother's teaching, so ready her own receptive powers. She 
was placed in a class of young ladies, and, says Col. Houghton : 

" I remember to have seen her during an examination of the school — a 
slender little figure at the head of the class of grown-up girls, her pale face 
lit up resplendently by dark, earnest eyes, as she repeated page after page 
of intellectual philosophy, or musically rendered the Eclogues of Virgil. 
She was a special object of interest and curiosity to most of the audience 
there assembled, for she was known to be a religious enthusiast. A ' revi- 
val ' had not long before ' converted ' a majority of the girls of the boarding- 
school: many of them had 'backslided,' some still held to the faith in a 
quiet, commonplace way; only this one, prone to extremes through her 
ardent, impulsive nature, became a fanatic, refraining from joining in the 
sports and pastimes of her playmates, refusing to answer a question posi- 
tively lest there might be room for a doubt, giving all her pocket-money to 
the poor children of the school, and (greatest sacrifice of all, to one whose 
love for the beautiful made her delight in bright colors and lovely apparel) 
rejecting the pretty garments sent her from home, and appearing, in the 
midst of her gayly-dressed class, in a plain, faded frock. 

" Her composition upon this occasion had for its theme, * The Shadows 
and Sunshine of Life/ I have before me, now, a mental picture of that 
rapt, young face — so child-like in its contour, so old in the expression of the 
large thoughtful eyes, that were lighted with enthusiasm as she concluded 
with a brief but glowing vision of the ' land beyond the vale of shadows 
and fleeting sunshine.' " 

This fanatical tendency, peculiarly strange in so young a child, 

* "We are indebted for many facts in this sketch to Col. R. B. Houghton, of Florida, 
formerly well known as an accomplished writer and eloquent public speaker. He has 
known Mrs. Bryan from her earliest youth, and by his example first gave a literary 
turn to her mind, that, in fertility of imagination and ease of expression, bears a con- 
siderable resemblance to his own. 



320 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

greatly troubled Mary's parents, who were proud of her brilliant tal- 
ents. It must have been a deep impression, for, gentle and yielding as 
her nature was, easily influenced by those she loved, and most sensitive 
to ridicule, it yet resisted entreaties, expostulation, and ridicule. In 
time it wore away. 

" Only once," says Col. Houghton, " did she speak to me of this period 
of her life. 'It contained,' she said, 'agonies, that I could not again bear 
and live. For the least venial sin — real or imagined — I was visited by 
pangs of remorse. Often have I passed whole nights on my knees in prayer, 
unconscious of cold or fatigue in the more acute mental anguish I endured. 
Yet, after the long wrestle, the agonizing doubt and despair, there would 
come a wonderful reaction, and I would experience moments of ecstasy in- 
describable. I cannot understand it. It is a mystery to my maturer years.' " 

Mary was then only twelve years old. A short time afterward her 
parents removed to Thomasvrlle, for the purpose of educating their 
daughters, and made for themselves a suburban home, beautiful with 
vineyards, gardens, and orchards. In the years that followed, Mary 
wrote, and published in a Thomasville paper, poems, and a story that 
ran through several numbers of the paper. She was still a school- 
girl, hardly sixteen, when her friends were surprised to hear that she 
was married — married to the son of a Louisiana planter. Her mar- 
riage was as unexpected to her as it was to her friends and relatives. 
An hour before she took upon herself the irrevocable vows, she was 
sitting, school-girl fashion, on the rug before the fire in her own room, 
quietly studying her Latin lesson. Two hours afterward, she had bid- 
den adieu to her girlish pursuits, to her parents, sisters, and friends, 
and was on her way to her husband's home on the banks of Red River. 
^During the first year of her marriage, she passed through some bitter 
experiences — experiences which one so young, so sensitive, and so 
ignorant of life, was illy prepared to meet. At the end of a year, she 
was visited by her father, who thought best that she should accompany 
him back to her old home. Of the partial separation that ensued, 
(partial, because she was constantly visited by her husband, who was 
devoted to her, and no estrangement ever existed between them,) it 
is not necessary to say any more than that it was deemed advisable by 
her father, a just man as well as an affectionate parent. There were 
peculiar circumstances which, in his opinion and that of her friends, 
made it judicious for her to postpone a return to her husband's home 
in Louisiana. 



MARY E. BRYAN. 321 

To divert her mind from painful' thought, her father advised a re- 
newal of her studies, with a view to completing her education ; and 
she turned to her old text-books — sadly and listlessly at first, after- 
ward with new energy and zeal for knowledge. She now resumed her 
writing for the press, and became a regular contributor to several 
periodicals. Among these was the " Literary Crusader," published by 
Mr. John Seals, at Penfield, Georgia. After writing for this paper for 
two years, it was removed to Atlanta, greatly enlarged and improved, 
and she was solicited to take part in its editorial management. She 
accepted the offer, went to Atlanta, and entered upon her new duties 
with the ardor and energy which are her distinguishing traits. ■ She 
succeeded in giving to the " Crusader " an individuality it had not 
before possessed, and in making it widely and popularly known, not 
only throughout the South, but in the Middle and Northern States. 

During the year in which she edited the " Crusader " in Atlanta, 
I believe that Mrs. Bryan performed more literary work and of a more 
varied character than any female of her age (twenty years) ever ac- 
complished in the same length of time. The expenses of removing 
the " Crusader " to Atlanta, of purchasing new type and press, etc., 
were so great that the proprietor did not consider that his finances jus- 
tified his paying for contributions ; still he wished to make his paper 
interesting and to have it contain a variety of original reading-matter. 
Mrs. Bryan was equal to this emergency. She determined to the best 
of her ability to supply the place of contributors. She called in play 
for the first time her remarkable versatility, her power of changing 
her style " from grave to gay, from lively to severe," and she filled a 
page of the " Crusader " every week with the required variety of 
original reading-matter from her own pen. Every number contained 
one or more columns of "editorial" upon subjects of present interest. 
Then a group of sparkling paragraphs, local or critical — essays, 
thoughtful or humorous, and sometimes scintillating with wit — a 
poem — a sketch or story, and often one or more chapters of a serial 
tale. . 

In addition to the weekly task of filling so many columns of a 
large literary paper, and also to the trouble of proof-reading, selecting, 
and other duties connected with her office, Mrs. Bryan found time to 
pursue, at intervals, the course of reading and study she had marked 
out for herself. But she did so by encroaching largely upon the hours 
allotted to rest. Even the Sabbath was no day of relaxation, since it 
41 



322 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

brought its own duties, in the care of her Bible class, of her younger 
band of Sunday-school scholars, and in an unfailing attendance upon 
divine service in the Methodist church, of which she was a faithful 
member. 

In November of this year, she was invited to read a poem at the 
Commencement of College Temple, Newnan, Georgia. Her poem 
was an eloquent delineation of true womanhood — its sphere, its mis- 
sion, and its aspirations ; and it was read in her own rich, magnetic 
voice. After she had taken her seat, she was recalled and compli- 
mented with a diploma from the president of the college. 

Before the close of the year, Mrs. Bryan felt that the unremitting 
toil was telling upon her health. She needed rest, and returned home, 
determined to write less than she had been doing. Several proposi- 
tions were made for her services the next year. She accepted the offer 
of Col. James Gardner, proprietor of the " Field and Fireside," as 
being not only most liberal in salary, but most generous in its privi- 
leges./ He expressly insisted that she should rest, should write at her 
leisure, and write with care and correction. How well she followed 
the latter suggestion, was shown in her first contributions to the 
"Field and Fireside," the noble essay, " How should Women Write," 
the pathetic sketch, " Cutting Eobbie's Hair," and the fine poem, " The 
Hour when we shall Meet." (The sketch and poem are to be found in 
Mary Forrest's " Distinguished Women of the South.") She contrib- 
uted novelettes, stories, essays, and poems. About this time she de- 
cided to return with her husband to Louisiana, and we next find her in 
her own quiet home, isolated from literary society, from the stimulus 
of applause and encouragement, and from those influences which 
quicken the energies and sharpen the mental faculties. Notwithstand- 
ing this, she completed her engagement with the "Field and Fire- 
side," and entered upon a new year, beginning it with the initial chap- 
ters of " Haywood Lodge." This is a beau-ideal of a novel — "a 
striking fiction/' The characters are as distinctly and as graphically 
drawn as any in " Adam Bede," or " Mill on the Floss." The scenes 
are sprightly and lifelike, and the plot one of intense interest. Mrs. 
Bryan promised a sequel to this novel — a second volume, so to speak — 
which has been from time to time demanded by the public, but is not 
yet forthcoming. 

f When she commenced her second engagement with the " Field and 
Fireside," it was at the commencement of the late war. Her husband 



MARY E. BRYAN. 323 

enlisted in the service of his country, and to Mrs. Bryan was left the super- 
intendence of the household and plantation. With these domestic duties 
she had little leisure for writing, yet she wrote a series of articles, vig- 
orous in style and caustic in their satire, denouncing and exposing the 
system of extortion, speculation, and fraud which was undermining 
the Southern interest. These articles appeared in the parish paper, 
having a local circulation only. 

When the war ended, Mr. Bryan had only honorable scars and com- 
parative poverty. In order to contribute her mite toward rebuilding 
their fallen fortunes, Mrs. Bryan accepted the editorship of the "Semi- 
weekly Times," published in Natchitoches. She removed temporarily 
to Natchitoches for the purpose of superintending the paper in person, 
and entered upon the work with her accustomed energy and earnest- 
ness. She was now required to try her versatile powers in a direction 
in which they had never essayed. The " Times " was a political paper, 
and Mrs. Bryan's leading articles were required by its proprietor to be 
discussions of the grave political questions agitating the public mind. 
This was by no means a congenial task, but none would have guessed 
it from reading the bold and vigorous " leaders " which appeared twice 
a week in the columns of the " Times," or the pungent paragraphs, 
the witty and satirical comments upon contemporary opinions, or 
upon the ludicrous aspect of " African sovereignty." 

Her work was attended by the most disheartening drawbacks. She 
wrote under the disadvantages of ill health, of sickness in her family, 
and of the necessity of devoting much of her time to the care of three 
young children — the eldest only five years old. In spite of these 
adverse circumstances, she furnished to the " Times," twice a week, 
not only the required columns of "editorial" and editorial para- 
graphs, but one or more essays, and usually a sketch, a story, or a 
poem. 

Mrs. Bryan's stay in Natchitoches was one of misfortune, and it 
was terminated by an affliction — the most bitter she had ever been 
called upon to endure — the long, painful illness and death of her 
youngest child j— her baby, her darling. The little sufferer (who had 
been a bright and beautiful boy) was suddenly and mysteriously 
afflicted, and lay for many weeks in the " death in life " of paralysis. 
It was during one of her anguished watches by that bed of silent suf- 
fering that Mrs. Bryan wrote the poem which she has called u Mise- 
rere." During the illness of her child, Mrs. Bryan exerted herself to 



324 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

continue her editorial duties — writing while the little one slept in her 
lap, or upon the bed, beside which she kept her unremitting watch ; 
buj/when the little coffin was carried out from the room, and she sat 
down with aching heart to supply the remorseless demand for "copy," 
she found it impossible to collect her thoughts. The reaction had 
come ; the long strain upon her feelings and energies showed its effects, 
and all she wrote was a brief adieu to the patrons of the paper. 

She returned to her plantation home, but continued to contribute to 
the " Times." In 1868, she went on a visit to her relatives in Florida, 
and while there formed an engagement with " Scott's Magazine," 
(Atlanta.) In this magazine she published a novel, entitled " The 
Mystery of Cedar Bay,? which will appear probably in book-form. 
This serial is original and thrillingly interesting. 

It is difficult to convey an adequate idea of Mrs. Bryan's powers by 
means of extracts, owing to the variety of style. Ease and grace 
characterize her lighter compositions, force and vigor distinguish her 
graver productions. 

Mrs. Bryan has frequently been called " the most gifted female 
writer which the South has produced." She is certainly the most 
versatile. It is in her power to make herself the most widely known. 
To do this, she must show more appreciation of her own powers — she 
must concentrate her energies upon some one work. 

September, 1869. 



ANACREON. 



Yon sea-like slope of darkening pines 

Is surging with the tempest's power, 
And not one star of promise shines 

Upon the twilight hour; 
With wailing sounds the blast is rife, 

And wilder yet the echoes roll 
Up from the scenes where want and strife 

Convulse the human soul. 
'Tis madness rules the fateful hour; 
Let me forget its fearful power; 
Drop low the curtains of my room, 
And in the green and purple gloom 
Lose sight of angry men and stormy skies, 
Gazing, Anacreon, on thy splendid eyes. 



MARY E. BRYAN. 325 

My grand old Greek ! far back in time 

Thy glorious birth-hour lies ; 
Thy shade has heard the tread sublime 

Of passing centuries. 
And yet the soul that thrilled thy lyre 

Has power to charm us still, 
And with its vivid light and fire 

Our duller spirits fill. 
Breathe on me, spirit rare and fine, 
Buoyant with energy divine : 
The light and joy of other days 
Live in those blue eyes' dazzling rays ; 
They lift my soul from its confining cage, 
The barriers of this dull and sordid age. 

I dream I am a girl of Greece, 

With pliant shape and foam-white arms, 
And locks that fall in bright release 

To veil my bosom's charms. 
The skies of Greece above me bend — 

The iEgean winds are in my hair ; 
I hear gay songs, and shoutings send 

Their music on the air. 
I see a bright procession pass — 
The girls throw garlands on the grass — 
And, crowned with myrtle and with bay, 
I see thee pass that flowery way, 
While swim before me smiling fields and skies, 
Dimmed by a glance of thy resplendent eyes. 

Prince of the Lyre ! thy locks are white 

As Blanc's untrodden snow; 
But, quenchless in their fire and light, 

Thy blue eye beams below, 
And well the myrtle gleams among 

Thy bays, like stars of truth ; 
The poet's soul is ever young — 

His is immortal youth. 
He dwells within that border-land 
Where innocence and passion stand — 
Ardent, yet pure, clasped hand in hand — ■ 
And years but add a richer grace, 
A higher charm to mind and face, 
"While youth and beauty that his dreams eclipse, 
Bend to the magic of his eyes and lips. 



326 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Oh ! heart of love and soul of fire ! 

My spirit bows to thee ; 
Type of the ideals that inspire 

My dreams eternally, 
I'd be a slave to such as thou, 

And deem myself a queen, 
If sometimes to my kneeling brow 

Those perfect lips might lean. 
High hopes and aims within my breast 
Would spring from their despairing rest, 
And the wild energies that sleep 
Like prisoned genii might out leap, 
And bid my name among th' immortal shine, 
If fame, to me, could mean such love as thine. 



MISEEEEE. 



Alone with night and silence, and those strange, 
Those bright, unseeing, sleepless eyes, whose depth 
I have searched vainly, weary days and nights, 
For some sweet gleam of consciousness, some ray 
Of tender recognition to break forth — 
Sudden and starlike — from the vacant cloud. 
It does not come; the sweet soul that looked forth 
From those deep eyes wanders mysteriously 
In some dim land that borders upon death, 
And I sit watching, after many days, 
With the tears dried upon my pallid cheeks, 
Their fountains dried within my hopeless heart, 
Waiting for death to make me desolate. 

The roses of a lovely May breathe out 

Their souls of fragrance underneath the moon ; 

The wind comes down from the wild grove of pines, 

Vocal with wordless mysteries; I see 

Its fingers toying with yon delicate leaves, 

Touched with faint silver by the midnight moon ; 

I see the dew-gleam on the tender grass, 

The thousand starry sentinels that watch 

Upon the battlements of heaven ; I see 

All these, as if I saw not ; for those eyes 

Haunt me forever, turn upon me still, 

Through the blank darkness made by clasping hands, 



MARY E. BRYAN. 32' 

By blinding tears, and clouds of falling hair, 
As with bowed head I strive to shut the sight 
From the o'ertortured sense. 

Oh! what to me 
Is it how many flowers the May shall blow 
Into young bloom with her sweet breath, since I 
Must lay mine low beneath the chilly sod, 
And watch the grass grow green between my heart 
And the sweet face I cradled on my breast ? 
What is it to me how many singing larks 
The morn may send to gild their soaring wings 
With the unrisen sun? the voice that was 
The sweetest under heaven to me is still! 
I would not turn from the pale lips, whereon 
Cruel paralysis — that death in life — 
Has laid his numbing seal, to list the strains 
The sirens sang across the classic seas. 

My child, my child! my beautiful, bright boy! 

In whose large eyes I dreamed that genius slept; 

For whose broad brow my fancy twined the bays 

That I had ceased to strive for ; my fair flower, 

That came when life seemed the most desolate, 

And shed a brightness round its lonely waste, 

And weaned the heart from the wild love of death, 

And rest, and deep forgetfulness ; thy lip, 

Ere it could speak, quivered in sympathy 

With my hot tears that fell upon thy face ; 

Thy baby hand lay softly on my heart 

Like a charmed flower, and soothed its wild unrest. 

What hopes have I not built for thee? what dreams 

Of future greatness has my fancy reared, 

Kneeling beside thy cradle, stroking back 

The locks from thy broad temples ? 

Well I knew 
That my own life had failed ; that the bright hopes 
And untamed aspirations of my youth, 
Met by the storm of fate, had drooped their wing, 
And fallen back, cold and dying, to the heart 
That was their nest. Alas! I felt the cord 
Of iron circumstance upon my life, 
And knew that woman's sorrowful fate was mine; 
That the wild energies that thrilled my being 



328 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Must throb themselves to silence; that with me 
Ambition must mean only grief; but thou, 
No robes of womanhood could trip thy steps 
Upon the mountain-paths of fame, my child ; 
Thou couldst be free and fearless ; thou mightst win 
The goal I could not touch ; mightst boldly speak 
The truths I dared not utter. 

Ay, I dreamed 
Thy voice might thrill the great soul of the world ; 
And strong for truth, and brave for truth, might lead, 
With clarion peal, the march of Eight, and bid 
Hoary Oppression tremble on his throne — 
And Wrong, and Bigotry, and Hatred quail 
Before its fearless utterance; that should drown 
The hiss of malice, and the carping cry 
Of Envy and weak Fear. 

So I have dreamed, 
When hope and love beat time within my breast, 
And ideal visions passed with prophecies 
In their deep eyes. Yet more; when I beheld 
The fair land of my love laid low, and made 
A land of graves and woful memories — 
A slaved and conquered land, that scarcely dares 
To quiver underneath th' oppressor's heel — 
I did not weep; for what avail were tears, 
E'en from the depths of a " divine despair," 
Before such wrong, such woe, such wretchedness, 
Such desolation? So I did not weep. 
A woman's tears fit only to keep warm 
And moist the sod of graves ; I only knelt, 
With beating heart and burning cheek, above 
The fair child of my hopes, and thought to breathe 
And mould into his unformed being my own 
Deep love, and pity, and devotedness, 
And passionate sense of wrong. In time, they might 
Produce the fruits I should not see: the soul 
That looked forth radiantly from the clear eyes, 
The hand that lay so flower-like within mine, 
Might aid to win his land's deliverance, 
And break the thraldom his free soul would scorn. 

Alas ! to-night how vain and wild they seem — 

Those earthly visions — those proud hopes and dreams — ; 



MARY E. BRYAN. ■ 329 

For thee, my darling, lying like a flower, 

The flames have scathed in passing, and have left 

Blighted and dying, — vain and wild they seem, 

As kneeling thus, I hold in mine that hand 

My fancy clothed with manhood's strength and grace, 

Now pale and paralyzed, while the bright mind 

That was my joy and pride, alas ! they say, 

It will not shine again in the sweet face, 

And give its radiance to the eyes I loved ; 

That e'en if life creeps back, and the fell fiend 

Of fever quits his victim, that the mind 

Will never more leap from the eyes in light, 

But stay within its cell, the brain, a dim 

And dreaming prisoner. 

Oh! I dare not dwell 
Upon the thought; better for thee and me 
Were death, my darling ; better this dear head 
Were lain beneath the shadows of the pines 
That oversweep yon City of the Dead. 
And thus I give thee up, my child, my life, 
To the great God who lent thee. Go, and be 
Tended by angels in the land where pain 
Comes not to rack the brain ; from angel lips 
Of loveliest music, angel eyes and brows, 
Divinely calm with love, and bright with thought, 
Learn the deep lore of heaven, and forget 
The brief and pain-fraught life that only saw 
The roses of one summer fade away. 



BY THE SEA. 



Once more, once more 
Beneath the golden skies I loved so well, 
Listening once more to the blue billows' swell 

Upon the sandy shore — 
The blue, bright waves, that in the sunlight shine 
Through vistas of the feathery palm and pine. 

• Land of my love, once more 
Thy beauty is around me : on my brow 
Thy pine-trees fling their shifting shadows now, 
And when the day-beams pour 



42 



330 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Across the cloud, my steed's swift gallop shakes 
The scarlet berries in thy lonely brakes. 

And when the noon is high, 
I see the yellowing lime and orange swinging 
On branches where the wild bird's notes are ringing, 

While all neglected lie 
The purple figs dropped in the plumy grass, 
The wild grapes hanging where cool waters pass. 

And when the planets burn, 
The fairest of the long-haired Naiad daughters 
Holds upward, through her lake's pellucid waters, 

The water-lily's urn, 
And floats its broad, green leaf upon the tide, 
To form an isle, where fairies might abide. 

Yet strange to me they seem — 
These glories of my native tropic clime; 
No more its silver-flowing waters rhyme 

With my own spirit's dream. 
The charm has vanished, broken is the spell; 
And in the woods and in the hollow dell 
Strange echoes seem to shape the word farewell. 

I would rebind the spell 
About my brow ; fling off the chain of years. 
Say, what should check me ? Why should time and tears 

The spirit sear or quell ? 
Snatch me a wreath from yonder blooming vine ! 
Here let me lie, where morning-glories twine, 
And round me call my olden dreams divine. 

Vain ! vain ! the broken spell 
Can never be renewed ; the vanished charm 
I 've vainly sought — in jessamines breathing warm ; 

In the magnolia's bell ; 
In deep ravines, where mystic waters pour 
Through the cleft earth, and reappear no more. 

But yesternight I stole 
Down to the sea — down to the lonely sea, 
Where but the starlight shone mysteriously ; . 

And there, my listening soul 
Heard, through the silence, every solemn wave 
Speak, in deep, mournful whispers of a yrave. 



MARY E. BRYAN. 331 

And now I know that here, 
Even here — across the glory and the bloom — 
There falls the shadow of that little tomb — 

The grave they made last year, 
Hiding beneath the sodden earth forlorn 
The flower of love, my desolate life had borne. 

Oh ! not for me, for me, 
Does the pale Naiad hold her lily-urn, 
And not for me the starry jessamines burn ; 

Only the dreary sea 
Brings me a message — on each solemn wave 
Bearing the mournful story of a grave. 



THE FATAL BEACELET. 

It wanted a half-hour to midnight. The marriage ceremony had long 
been over, and the bride had been gayest among her guests. There was a 
pause in the dance just now. Vane had gone below — called down upon 
some business that would not wait even for bridal festivities. Flushed and 
sparkling, Coralyn stood at a retired window beside her partner, resting from 
the exercise of the dance. The night was warm, and her companion prof- 
fered to go for a glass of iced water. When he had quitted her side, she 
leaned from the window, drinking in the fresh air, whose balm cooled the 
hot glow upon her cheeks, and quieted the feverish unrest of her heart. She 
did not hear a stealthy step approach her ; she had no warning of the prox- 
imity of danger, until a voice said in her ear : " I am late with my congratu- 
lations for such an old friend." 

She turned instantly, and confronted him face to face. It was he ! He 
was not dead. It was the dark, handsome face of the picture — darker and 
more* sinister than ever. Had the earth opened at her feet, she could not 
have been more stunned, more stupefied — could not have grown whiter, or 
felt her brain reel with more deadly sickness. 

" Do not faint ! " he whispered, with a scornful smile half defined on his 
full lips. " What would be thought ? " 

The necessity for self-control brought back consciousness and strength. 
She glanced around — she was not observed. 
" I thought — " she faltered. 

" That I was dead. Very distressing thought, no doubt, to you. Happy 
to relieve your mind by affording you ocular proof of my existence. Prob- 
ably, you thought that death alone should have kept me away from your 
arms. Really, you must blame the importunities of friends, which it was 
out of my power to resist. They kindly obliged me to accept the privilege 



332 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

of their residence and the society of their select guests, and insisted so stren- 
uously upon my partaking of their hospitality for the term of my natural 
life, that it was only by stratagem and the devil's help that I at last got rid 
of the burden of their excessive kindness. See ; I have brought away a 
token of their affection." And the escaped convict unfastened his jewelled 
sleeve-button, and rolling back his sleeve a little way, showed the deep scars 
of handcuffs on his wrist. He smiled as he saw her shudder. Then, as he 
quietly buttoned his cuff again, the partner of Coralyn returned with the 
glass of water. She would have sprung forward eagerly to his side, but a 
glance from the eyes she feared, restrained her. The dark stranger stepped 
gracefully forward. 

" Permit me," he said, taking the glass from the gentleman with bland 
politeness, and placing it in her hand. 

It would have fallen from her cold fingers, but he held it, while she drained 
the last crystal drop. The glass was returned to the gentleman. He was 
her husband's dearest friend. He would have remained by her side, had he 
seen or interpreted the mute, imploring look she cast upon him. He did not 
see it. He turned away, and left her with the man, whose easy familiarity 
seemed to betoken him an old friend. 

She cast her eyes over the crowd — fearing and yet blindly wishing to see 
her husband's tall figure, and meet his eyes in search of her. Yet how 
could he help her ? What would she dare to say to him ? If he knew all, 
would he not fling her from him in horror ? Oh ! what should she do ? what 
would become of her ? Why had she ever deceived him and yielded to the 
temptation of securing herself within the safe, sweet shelter of home and 
love ? What right had she to home or love ? — she — she — she dared not 
whisper it to herself. It was horrible — horrible! True, she had been so 
young, so utterly ignorant ; and then that cruel, terrible Margery — and 
her son — the fiendish being who stood now gloating upon her beauty and 
her terror. Could it be she had ever loved him — had trembled and blushed 
when he spoke to her — had watched him (the first young man she had ever 
seen) with a fearful, fascinated gaze, and a feeling of mingled abhorrence 
and admiration ? 

Why had he come here to-night? What would he dare to tell of her past 
life, when it must involve an exposure of himself — he, the escaped felon, 
doubtless with a price upon his head ? Did he read the rapid thoughts that 
rushed through her brain ? He stood there, watching her with folded arms, 
and a smile on his lips. His eyes drank in her beauty, and burned upon her 
with the blended fire of love and hate. The band began playing a waltz — 
the dancers gathered upon the floor. " Let us waltz," he said suddenly, 
proffering his hand. She made an involuntary gesture of loathing, and her 
lips syllabled a refusal. His dark brow grew blacker as he saw the abhor- 
rence she could not conceal. His eyes flashed luridly ; he bent down and 
whispered a word in her ear. She grew livid to the lips ; her eyes fell, her 



MARY E. BRYAN. 333 

hands dropped at her side. He watched her with his shining, serpent eyes 
and half-formed smile. 

" Shall we waltz now? " he asked gayly ; and passing his arm around her 
waist, they floated into the centre of the room among the dancers. 

The music was at first slow and soft. As they swam through its languid 
mazes, he kept his basilisk eyes fixed upon her. 

"You wear my gift," he said, tightening his grasp upon her wrist that was 
circled by the coiled serpent. 

" Yours ? " she uttered. " Nurse Margery's — " 

"No; mine. The note was only a ruse to make sure of your wearing the 
bracelet. Margery is dead." 

"Dead?" 

" Dead — starved to death in a gutter, thanks to the gratitude of her fos- 
ter-child." He hissed out the words between his teeth. His lips parted, and 
the white, carnivorous teeth shone beneath the black moustache like the 
teeth of a wild beast. 

" Her foster-child," he continued, " that she fed when a pauper, and who, 
when her heirship was discovered, drove her off to starve." 

" Not I, not I — it was my aunt. God forgive me, I had not courage — " 

" Hush speaking of God. What is God to us? My mother will not for- 
give. She will torture you for it in the regions of the damned." 

She cowered under the dark words and the threatening brow and eyes. 
What a mockery it w^as to be whirling round to the quickening music, flower- 
crowned and festally arrayed, while her spirit shrank within her through 
terrible shame, and her brain reeled with dizzy torture. 

" And you ? " she found voice to say ; " why are you here to-night ? " 

" To crush a worm that has dared to sting me. Ha ! did you think I could 
be deceived and trifled with, without my revenge ? " 

As he spoke, bending his lips so close to hers that the fiery breath was on 
her cheek, he grasped the serpent-bound arm so tightly, that she uttered a 
faint exclamation. It was drowned by the music, that now rose wilder and 
faster, while the dancers whirled in rapid circles over the floor, that shook 
with the beating of their feet. 

" Scream," he whispered ; " draw the crowd around you. I will then have 
a fine opportunity of explaining old matters." « 

" Have mercy," she moaned, as he whirled her relentlessly around. 
" Loose your grasp upon my arm. The bracelet is piercing my flesh. I am 
suffering intensely." 

" It is the cobra's tooth," he answered, with the malignant smile of a fiend. 
" The bracelet is bewitched. My touch endues it with life and venom. Its 
head is lifted no longer ; the blow is struck ; the fangs are in your flesh." 

" God ! I am ill. I am in terrible pain ! in mercy let me stop ! " 

But round and round he whirled her — supporting her slender figure 
almost wholly by his muscular arm. 



334 LIVING FEMALE WRITEES OF THE SOUTH, 

" Spare me ! spare me ! " she groaned. " In mercy, in mercy ! " 

" Did you think of mercy when you broke your faith with me ? — taught 
yourself to scorn and hate me ; drove my old mother, who had nursed you, 
from your presence, and deceived an honorable man into taking you as his 
wife — you, a wife! ha! ha! impostor! I would have found my sweetest 
revenge by exposing all — holding you up to his scorn and the contempt of 
the world you love so well ; but I look to my own safety. I am not ready to 
swing just yet, or to go back to that devil's hole of punishment. I have 
taken a safer mode to secure my revenge." 

" God ! I suffer, I suffer ! " 

Her head fell back heavily against him. 

"Water ! " he cried, "a lady has fainted." 

"She has fainted! the bride has fainted ! " repeated a score of voices, and 
the throng pressed around her in helpless bewilderment. 

Vane heard the words, as he came bounding up the steps. 

He strode into the room. The crowd made way as he came. He took 
her into his arms. He flung back the rich hair until it swept rippling to 
*he floor. He called her by all the sweet, endearing names of love, as he 
applied one restorative after another. But there came no sign of life. The 
lips were closely crushed together, and lurid circles were darkening under 
the eyes. 

" A physician ! " he cried huskily. One stood beside him now — holding 
the slender wrist, which the serpent bracelet no longer clasped. He kuelt 
down and examined her attentively. He was a man of science and experi- 
ence — long a sojourner in Eastern lands. 

" It is death," he said -solernnlv. 

Vane was speechless. They took her from him to another room, and he 
followed like a child. As the body was borne past the physician, he pointed 
to the livid spots gathering upon the marble of the breast, arms, and fore- 
head, and said : " If this were in the East, I should swear that she died 
from the bite of the cobra da Capelli." 

And where was the murderer ? — where was he with that fatal bracelet, 
with its concealed spring and its slender, poisoned blade — dipped in the 
poison of the cobra — the speediest and deadliest ? 

Xo one knej. He had disappeared in the confusion of the crowd. 
Only one suspected him of being a murderer. 

The next day the civil authorities searched the neighborhood for an es- 
caped convict — a desperate felon, committed for life. They went away 
without finding him ; but some days afterward, a party of hunters in the 
mountains saw the vultures gathered around something at the foot of the 
precipice. They reached the place by a circuitous path, and found the body 
of a human being : the wrists and ankles were scarred as if by heavy irons, 
the clothing was rich, and in the pocket of the coat was found a curious 
bracelet of gold — in semblance a cobra serpent, in the attitude of striking, 



*£ 



MARY E. BRYAN. 335 

with eyes of emeralds and hood studded with rubies ; on touching a secret 
spring, it was found that the cobra's head sprang suddenly forward, and a 
tiny blade leaped out from its jaws ! 

" Do not touch it," said the physician. "It has been dipped in the poison 
of the cobra." 



HOW SHOULD WOMEN WEITE? 

The idea of women writing books ! There were no prophets in the days 
of King John to predict an event so far removed from probability. The 
women of the household sat by their distaffs, or toiled in the fields, or busied 
themselves in roasting and brewing for their guzzling lords. If ever a poetic 
vision or a half-defined thought floated through their minds, they sang it 
out to their busy wheels, or murmured it in rude sentences to lull the babies 
upon their bosoms, or silently wove it into their lives to manifest itself in 
patient love and gentleness. And it was all as it should have been ; there 
was need for nothing more. Physical labor was then all that was required 
of woman ; and to " act well her part," meant but to perform the domestic 
duties which were given her. Life was less complex then than now — the 
intellectual part of man's twofold nature being but unequally developed, 
while the absence of labor-saving implements demanded a greater amount 
of manual toil from men as well as from women. 

It is different now. Modern ingenuity and Protean appliances of ma- 
chinery have lessened the necessity of actual physical labor; and, in the 
constant progress of the human race, new fields have been opened, and new 
social needs and requirements are calling for workers in other and higher 
departments. 

There is a cry now for intellectual food through the length and breadth of 
the land. The old oracles of the past, the mummied literary remains of a 
dead age, will not satisfy a generation that is pressing so vigorously forward. 
They want books imbued with the strong vitality and energy of the present. 
And as it is a moving, hurrying, changing time, with new influences and 
opinions constantly rising like stars above the horizon, men want books to 
keep pace with their progress — nay, to go before and guide them, as the 
pillar of fire and cloud did the Israelites in the desert. So they want books 
for every year, for every month — mirrors to " catch the manners living as 
they rise," lenses to concentrate the rays of the new stars that dawn upon 
them. 

There is a call for workers ; and woman, true to her mission as the help- 
meet for man, steps forward to take her part in the intellectual labor, as she 
did when only manual toil was required at her hands. The pen has become 
the mighty instrument of reform and rebuke ; the press is the teacher and 
the preacher of the world; and it is not only the privilege, but the duty of 



336 LIVING FEMALE WEITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 

woman to aid in extending this influence of letters, and in supplying the 
intellectual demands of society, when she has been endowed with the power. 
Let her assure herself that she has been called to the task, and then grasp 
her pen firmly, with the stimulating consciousness that she is performing the 
work assigned to her. 

Thus is apparent what has been gradually admitted, that it is woman's 
duty to write — but how and what ? This is yet a mooted question. Men, 
after much demur and hesitation, have given women liberty to write; but 
they cannot yet consent to allow them fall freedom. They may flutter out 
of the cage, but it must be with clipped wings ; they may hop about the 
smooth-shaven lawn, but must, on no account, fly. With metaphysics 
they have nothing to do ; it is too deep a sea for their lead to sound ; nor 
must they grapple with those great social and moral problems with which 
every strong soul is now wrestling. They must not go beyond the surface 
of life, lest they should stir the impure sediment that lurks beneath. They 
may whiten the outside of the sepulchre, but must not soil their kidded 
hands by essaying to cleanse the inside of its rottenness and dead men's 
bones. 

Nature, indeed, is given them to fustianize over, and religion allowed 
them as their chief capital — the orthodox religion, that says its prayers out 
of a prayer-book, and goes to church on Sabbaths ; but on no account the 
higher, truer religion, that, despising cant and hypocrisy, and scorning 
forms and conventionalisms, seeks to cure, not to cloak the plague-spots of 
society — the self-forgetting, self-abnegating religion that shrinks not from 
following in the steps of Christ, that curls not its lip at the touch of poverty 
and shame, nor fears to call crime by its right name, though it wear a gilded 
mask, nor to cry out earnestly and bravely, " Away with it ! away with it ! " 
No! not such religion as this. It is unfeminine; women have no business 
with it whatever, though they may ring changes as often as they please 
upon the "crowns of gold," the "jasper walls," and "seraph harps." 

Having prescribed these bounds to the female pen, men are the first to 
condemn her efforts as tame and commonplace, because they lack earnest- 
ness and strength. 

If she writes of birds, of flowers, sunshine, and id omne genus, as did Amelia 
Welby, noses are elevated superbly, and the effusions are said to smack of 
bread and butter. 

If love, religion, and domestic obligations are her theme, as with Mrs. 
Hentz, " namby-pamby " is the word contemptuously applied to her produc- 
tions. If, like Mrs. Southworth, she reproduces Mrs. Radcliffe in her possi- 
bility — scorning romances, her nonsensical clap- trap is said to be "beneath 
criticism;" and if, with Patty Pepper, she gossips harmlessly of fashions 
and fashionables, of the opera and Laura Keene's, of watering-places, lec- 
tures, and a railroad trip, she is "pish"-e& aside as silly and childish; while 
those who seek to go beyond the boundary-line are put down with the stigma 



MAEY E. BRYAN. 337 

of " strong-minded." Fanny Fern, who, though actuated by no fixed pur- 
pose, was yet more earnest than the majority of her sisterhood, heard the 
word hissed in her ears whenever she essayed to strike a blow at the root of 
social sin and inconsistency, and had whatever there was of noble and phi- 
lanthropic impulse in her nature annihilated by the epithets of "bold" and 
" indelicate," which were hurled at her like poisoned arrows. 

It will not do. Such dallying with surface-bubbles, as we find in much 
of our periodical literature, might have sufficed for another age, but not for 
this. We want a deeper troubling of the waters, that we may go down into 
the pool and be healed. It is an earnest age we live in. Life means more 
than it did in other days ; it is an intense reality, crowded thick with eager, 
questioning thoughts and passionate resolves ; with burning aspirations and 
agonized doubts. There are active influences at work, all tending to one 
grand object — moral, social, and physical advancement. The pen is the 
compass-needle that points to this pole. Shall woman dream on violet 
banks, while this great work of reformation is needing her talents and her 
energies ? Shall she prate prettily of moonlight, music, love, and flowers, 
while the world of stern, staring, pressing realities of wrong and woe, of 
shame and toil, surrounds her ? Shall she stifle the voice in her soul for 
fear of being sneered at as strong-minded, and shall her great heart throb 
and heave as did the mountain of iEsop, only to bring forth such insignifi- 
cant mice — such productions — more paltry in purpose than in style and 
conception — which she gives to the world as the offspring of her brain ? 

It will not long be so. Women are already forming higher standards 
for themselves, learning that genius has no sex, and that, so the truth be 
told, it matters not whether the pen is wielded by a masculine or a female 
hand. The active, earnest, fearless spirit of the age, which sends the blood 
thrilling through the veins of women, will flow out through their pens, and 
give color to the pictures they delineate, to the principles they afiirm. Lit- 
erature must embody the prominent feeling of the age on which it is 
engrafted. It is only an isolated, excepted spirit, like Keats's, which can 
close its eyes to outward influences, and, amid the roar of gathering political 
storms, and the distant thunderings of the French Eevolution, lie down 
among the sweet, wild English flowers, and dream out its dream of the old 
Greek beauty. 

How should a woman write ? I answer, as men, as all should write to 
whom the power of expression has been given — honestly and without fear. 
Let them write what they feel and think, even if there be errors in the 
thought and the feeling — better that than the lifeless inanities of which lit- 
erature, and especially periodical literature, furnishes so many deplorable 
samples. 

Our opinions on ethical and social questions change continually as the 
mind develops, and the light of knowledge shines more broadly through 
the far-off opening in the labyrinth of inquiry through which we wander, 
43 



338 LIVING FEMALE WEITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 

seeking for truth. Thus, even when writers are most honest, their opinions 
written at different times, often appear contradictory. This the discerning 
reader will readily understand. He will know that in ascending the ladder, 
upon whose top the angels stand, the prospect widens and changes contin- 
ually as newer heights are won. Emerson, indeed, tells us that " a foolish 
consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. With consistency, a great soul 
has simply nothing to do. Speak what you think now in hard words ; and 
to-morrow, speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it 
contradict everything you said to-day." 

This is strong — perhaps too unqualified; but even inconsistency is better 
than the dull, donkey-like obstinacy which refuses to move from one posi- 
tion, though the wooing spirit of inquiry beckon it onward, and winged 
speculation tempt it to scale the clouds. 

Still, there should be in writing, as in acting, a fixed and distinct purpose 
to which everything should tend. If this be to elevate and refine the human 
race, the purpose will gradually and unconsciously work out its own accom- 
plishment. Not, indeed, through didactic homilies only ; every image of 
beauty or sublimity crystallized in words, every philosophic truth, and every 
thought that has a tendency to expand the mind or enlarge the range of 
spiritual vision, will aid in advancing this purpose, will be as oil to the lamp 
we carry to light the footsteps of others. 

As to the subjects that should be written upon, they are many and varied; 
there is no exhausting them while nature teems with beauty — while men 
live, and act, and love, and suffer — while the murmurs of the great ocean of 
the Infinite come to us in times when the soul is stillest, like music that is 
played too far off for us to catch the tune. Broad fields of thought lie before 
us, traversed, indeed, by many feet, but each season brings fresh fruits to 
gather and new flowers to crop. 

Genius, like light, shines upon all things — upon the muck-heap as upon 
the gilded cupola. 

As to the wrong and wretchedness which the novelist lays bare — it will 
not be denied that such really exists in this sin-beleaguered world. Where- 
fore shrink and cover our eyes when these social ulcers are probed ? Better 
earnestly endeavor to eradicate the evil, than seek to conceal or ignore its 
existence. Be sure this will not prevent it eating deeper and deeper into 
the heart. 

Genius, when true and earnest, will not be circumscribed. No power 
shall say to it : " Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther." Its province is, 
in part, to daguerreotype the shifting influences, feelings, and tendencies at 
work in the age in which it exists — and sin, and grief, and suffering, as 
well as hope, and love, and joy, and star-eyed aspiration, pass across its 
pages as phantoms across the charmed mirror of the magician. Genius 
thrills along " the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound," from the 
highest to the lowest link of the social ligature ; for true genius is Christ- 



MARY E. BRYAN. 339 

like; it scorns nothing; calls nothing that God made common or unclean, 
because of its great yearning over mankind, its longing to lift them up from 
the sordid things of sense in which they grovel to its own higher and purer 
intellectual or spiritual atmosphere. The noblest woman of us all, Mrs. 
Elizabeth Browning, whom I hold to have written, in "Aurora Leigh," the 
greatest book of this century, — the greatest, not from the wealth of its 
imagery, or the vigor of its thoughts, but because of the moral grandeur of 
its purpose, — Mrs. Browning, I say, has not shrunk from going down, with 
her purity encircling her, like the halo around the Saviour's head, to the 
abodes of shame and degradation for materials to aid in elucidating the 
serious truths she seeks to impress for sorrowful examples of the evils for 
which she endeavors to find some remedy. She is led to this through that 
love which is inseparable from the higher order of genius. That noblest 
form of genius which generates the truest poetry — the poetry of feeling 
rather than of imagination — warm with human life, but uncolored by 
voluptuous passion — is strongly connected with love. Not the sentiment 
which dances through the world to the music of marriage-bells ; but that 
divine, self-ignoring, universal love of which the inspired apostle wrote so 
burningly, when, caught up in the fiery chariot of the Holy Ghost, he looked 
down upon the selfish considerations of common humanity : the love (or 
charity) "which beareth all things, endureth all things, which suffereth 
long and is kind," — the love which, looking to heaven, stretches its arms to 
enfold the whole human brotherhood. 

This is the love which, hand in hand with genius, is yet to work out the 
redemption of society. I have faith to believe it ; and sometimes, when the 
tide of hope and enthusiasm is high, I have thought that woman, with the 
patience and the long-suffering of her love, the purity of her intellect, her 
instinctive sympathy and her soul of poetry, might be God's chosen instru- 
ment in this work of gradual reformation, this reconciling of the harsh con- 
trasts in society that jar so upon our sense of harmony, this righting of the 
grievous wrongs and evils over which we weep and pray, this final uniting 
of men into one common brotherhood by the bonds of sympathy and affection. 

It may be but a Utopian dream ; but the faith is better than hopelessness ; 
it is elevating and cheering to believe it. It is well to aspire, though the 
aspiration be unfulfilled. It is better to look up at the stars, though they 
dazzle, than down at the vermin beneath our feet. 



FANNY E. HEREON. 

MISS HERRON'S publications have been few, and yet we rank her 
among the " promising writers of the sunny South." In Febru- 
ary, 1867, a poem of four hundred lines appeared in the " Mobile Sun- 
day Times," entitled " The Siege of Murany," which was Miss Herron's 
first contribution to that journal. "Glenelglen," a romance of other 
days, and an excellent tale, her first attempt in prose, was written to 
compete for the prize offered by the " Times ; " and, after appearing in 
that journal, was published in book-form. 

Though originally a resident of Virginia, the father of Miss Herron, 
the late James Herron, civil engineer, was for a number of years in 
charge of the public works at the Pensacola Navy Yard. Miss Her- 
ron is a graduate of the Academy of the Visitation, Mount de Sales, 
in Baltimore County, Maryland, taking first premiums and gold medal. 

Miss Herron resides in Pensacola. 

3868. 



EXTRACTS FROM 

THE SIEGE OF MURANY. 

But see, on yonder neighboring plains, 

Where lingers still the day, 
Each silvered helm, each burnished shield 

Has caught its latest ray, 
And flashes back in mimic light 

The glory Sol had given, 
Before the spangled flag of night 

Had draped the dome of heaven. 
Whence came yon band in martial gear? 

What daring chieftain led 
Yon royal host where Muran's guns 

Rain vengeance on his head? 
840 



FANNY E. HEERON, 341 

'T is lie ! 't is he, with eagle glance, 

And forehead bold and fair, 
With cheek sun-kissed to olive hue, 

And waving, midnight hair; 
'T is he, with martial step and mien, 

Whose deep-toned voice's sound 
Might vie with lyre by Orpheus touched 

T' enchant the groves around ; 
'T is he, whose mouth of stern resolve 

Can melt in smiles so rare, 
So soft, so sweet, his men forget 

Their months of toil and care, 
And rush to death in countless forms 

Whene'er he leads the way: 
'T is Wesselengi — he who sits 

In tent at close of day. 
Though young in years, in deeds of arms 

Full many score is he, 
As foe hath never yet beheld 

Him dastard turn to flee. 
Yet when yon dark, stupendous pile 

Upon his vision rose, 
The evil fortune he deplored 

That peopled it with foes. 
By nature it was rendered strong, 

Impregnable by art; 
Yet felt he, never from those walls 

With honor he'd depart, 
Until time-hallowed Murany 

Had owned the kingly power, 
Until his monarch's standard waved 

Triumphant o'er each tower. 
In sullen floods these sombre thoughts 

Fast o'er his spirit roll, 
Till thus he vented to the night, 

The anguish of his soul : 

'Oh! must the laurels hardly earned, 

Which long have wreathed my brow, 
Be tarnished by defeat or flight? 

Yield to a woman now? 
I've led my hosts o'er mountain snow, 

By prestige of my name; 
Was't but to watch in darkness set 

The day-star of my fame? 



342 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

No ! brighter yet that star shall glow, 

And laurels fresh I '11 reap ; 
Again shall fortune greet her son, 

Or with my dead I'll sleep." 

O Wesselengi, was it pride, 

And loyalty alone, 
To keep undimmed thy martial fame, 

And stay thy monarch's throne, 
That made thee hazard freedom sweet — 

Nay, tempt a darker fate — 
By venturing unattended thus 

Within that massive gate? 
Or had the charms of her who dwelt 

In yonder turret old 
Been whispered in thy midnight dreams, 
To make thee rashly bold? 



MRS. M. LOUISE CROSSLEY. 

ATHENS, Georgia, was the birthplace of Mrs. Crossley, whose 
maiden name was M. Louise Rogers. 
In her childhood, Miss Rogers was left much to herself; her best 
teachers were nature and experience. The first published pen-work 
of Miss Rogers was written while she was in Southwestern Georgia, an 
inmate of the home of Major Edwards. Mrs. Edwards, her aunt on 
the maternal side, was the mother of Mrs. Mary E. Bryan. There 
are critical times in almost every life, when the slightest circumstance 
may serve to change the current of destiny; and it was probably owing 
to this summer visit that Miss Rogers turned her attention to author- 
ship so soon. For, like Miss Edgeworth, her " great respect for the 
public " would have made her timid about publishing, unless stimu- 
lated by the example of one her opposite in this particular. Such an 
one she found in her cousin. Although so young, Mrs. Bryan had 
already sounded nearly the whole gamut of feeling, and now she was 
reproducing her experiences through the medium of her pen. Pas- 
sionate, impetuous, and bold, she was rapidly throwing off her daring 
opinions and sentiments, more from the feverish unrest and turbulent 



AUGUSTA DE MILLY. 343 

fulness of her mind than from any fixed purpose or reverent devotion 
to art, (such as may have afterward come to be her motive,) and pub- 
lishing with the indifference of one not troubled with any overpowering 
"respect for the public." The contagious quality of the cacoethes 
scribendi is proverbial. The daily sight of manuscript, the indifference 
with which scribbled sheets were despatched to various editors, had 
their influence upon Louise Rogers. Her first article, whose theme 
was " Beauty," was published. The ice broken, Miss Rogers published 
in the newspapers frequently under the nom de guerre of " Rena." She 
contributed to the " Literary Companion," published in Newnan, Ga., 
as "Currer Lyle." During the war she contributed, under her own 
name, to the " Southern Illustrated News." 

In May, 1866, Miss Rogers was married to J. T. Crossley, Esq., and 
is resident at Columbus, Florida. 

Mrs. Crossley is engaged in collecting and composing materials for 
a volume, to contain her best productions that have been printed, and 
two novelettes that have never been published. 

1869. 

AUGUSTA DE MILLY. 

IN Confederate literature, the signature of " Ethel Deen " and the 
initials " A. D." were pleasant sights ; for the article to which they 
were attached, whether prose or verse, was always readable. 

Augusta De Milly is a native of New York city, but having many 
Southern connections, and the greater portion of her life having been 
passed in the State of Florida, she claims to be a Southern woman by 
residence, as she is by feeling. 

During the war, Mrs. De Milly contributed to the literary journals of 
" Dixie," principally the " Southern Field and Fireside," (Augusta,) and 
" Magnolia Weekly," (Richmond,) under signatures alluded to, and 
many of her articles, written in a careless and desultory manner, were 
excellent and much praised. Since the close of the war, her attempts 
in the writing line have been few : as she expresses it, " a school-teacher 
has little time to gossip with the Muses." The prose productions of 
Mrs. De Milly are short sketches, well written and interesting ; but, as 
she says in a note to the writer, " Never having made any sustained 
effort, I can point to no effort which would at all afford a foundation 
for a literary reputation." 



344 LIVING FEMALE W BITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Her home is in the "land of flowers," where the " fount of perpet- 
ual youth " was said to be in ancient days, and indeed where sunshine 
and beautiful blooms are perennial. " Jacksonville, Florida," is her 
address. 

1863. 



"IMPLOBA PACE." 

The most frequent inscription on the tombs in Italy is the above petition. 

The spring-time died — so would I gladly die 
And be at rest ; for life brings but remorse : 

I 'd welcome thee, dread Azrael, fearlessly, 
Nor once bewail my yet unfinished course. 

Come, dreamless sleep,; no phosphorescent spark 

Can lure me then to wander in the dark. 

Germs wither, buds pale at their birth, 
The chilling winds stab blossoms without ruth, 

The grain must lie among the tares of earth, 
And scudding vapors hide the heaven of truth. 

Must I, whose soon maturity was vain, 

Take up the burden of my life again ? 

The summer died — and fain would I too rest 
Within thy pitying arms ; quick tempests drown 

Me with their tears — tierce lightnings scathe my breast, 
And the rich treasures of my heart go down. 

Oh, be not thou inexorable, Death ! 

Kiss on my lips thine all-availing breath. 

Come thou ! the orchid's eyes are calm 
That look from the greensward — the shade 

Of feathery cedars woos me with its balm, 
And the eternal stars smile ever overhead. 

How can I hush my heart that moans its pain ? 

How take the burden of my life again ? 

See ! even the autumn lies beneath his pall 
Heraldic. O ye winds that round him sweep, 

Could ye, like his, my spirit disenthrall, 
Then would I calmly lie — and calmly sleep. 

Dews of the mocking vine but parch my lips ; 

I'd quaff, O Death ! thy cup's nepenthean deeps. 



AUGUSTA DE MILLY. 345 

Must I, pale king ! so weary of the strife 

For fame, for wealth, for fruits that ever cloy, — 

I, who had sown the affluence of my life, 
And built wide barns for harvestings of joy, — 

Must I, who garner blight, not laughing grain, 

Take up the burden of such life again ? 

Between white hills, within his nest of snows 
Plucked from the bosom of the brooding cloud, 

Dead winter lies — so peaceful his repose, 

No royal robes could lure me like his shroud ; 

My blooms like his are fettered for all time, 

Prisoned in bars of ice, and frost, and rime. 

Why should I live ? My heart is stark and dead 

To all sweet influence. Never love-bird's lays 
Wake tuneful carols there — such songs have fled 

To where are verdant boughs and blossoming sprays. 
Hold out thy sceptre, Death! — if thou dost reign, 
Nor bid me bear life's burden yet again. 



FLORIDA CAPTA. 



Leaning her fair head against the pines, 
Like some faint lily resting on the waves, 

In the clear waters — where a white moon shines — 
Idle and dreaming, either hand she laves. 

Her listless cheek the green palmetto fans ; 

The blue-eyed vine her sighing lips has kissed ; 
The pitying rivers, from their reedy bands 

Loosening their tresses, fold her in the mist. 

And over her the sobbing roses bend, 
Dropping their fragrant tears upon her face ; 

For her wan temples, with a trembling hand, 
The jasmine breaks her alabaster vase. 

In vain, from every sprouting screen around, 

A sweet- voiced bird her plaintive love-song sings ; 

With the soft moonlight linked and interwound, 
Rippling the air in bright harmonic rings. 
44 



346 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

A tender memory haunts her where she lies — 
The beauteous Florida ! — the queen uncrowned ! 

And dims the light in her sweet, mournful eyes, 
That see not wave, nor moon, nor aught around. 

She feels again upon her bosom bare 
The milky teeth of the young laughing corn ; 

Her fingers stray among the tangled hair, 
Silken and white, of one yet later born. 

No more ! no more on any summer night 
They '11 draw their nurture from her crescive breast ; 

No more the breathings of their soft delight 
Shall lull their mother into blissful rest. 

Above her, O ye fauns ! bend branch and bough ; 

Shield her fair form 'gainst the chill, blighting dew ; 
Pity her dolor, and on her pale brow 

Bind your gray pearls of beaded mistletoe. 

For from the dusk in her sweet, mournful eyes, 
That see not moon, nor wave, nor aught around. 

Never again shall full-orbed hope arise 
To shine on her — on Florida uncrowned. 




TENNESSEE, 



MRS. L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 




RS. FRENCH'S birth and education are the best the country 
affords. Poeta nascitur, and Mrs. French, aside from being 
a " born " poet, is a " born " lady. She knows it as well. 
gy-gg-^l Her family, early incidents of her life, and romantic mar- 
riage are piquantly spoken of in " Mary__Forrest's " elegant work, 
" Women of the South." Born on the fair shores of Virginia, educated 
in Pennsylvania, and married in Tennessee, her life has been like her- 
self, varied and cosmopolitan. She is, nevertheless, a true daughter 
of the Old Dominion ; a fair representative of its gay grace, its cordial 
hospitality, its love of luxury, and its indomitable pride. 

The personal appearance of Mrs. French is highly prepossessing, 
and her manner so gifted with repose as to be unusually tranquillizing 
in its social influence. Yet there are seasons when the blue eyes flash, 
and the lips are wreathed in smiles so vivid and genial, that one can 
scarcely understand how the quiet lady, a moment before sitting so 
rest-fully, and listening so patiently, can be the same as she, so sud- 
denly stirred to interest and emotion. 

That rarest of all American gifts — wit — has been conferred upon 
her, in conjunction with poetic genius of no common order; and it is 
delightful to hear her low, rich laugh rippling out in ready recognition 
of some point of humor, obtuse to most listeners, and to find her arrow 
of repartee always on the string, though its point is never envenomed 
by the poison of bitterness. 

Mrs. French possesses a noble nature ; full of generous emotions and 
fine impulses ; turning away from all wrong ; not so much, perhaps, 
because of the wickedness of wrong ; but because wrong implies some- 
thing low and mean ; and to do wrong, therefore, would be too deep a 
condescension; — large-hearted and liberal-minded; taking broad views 
of life and humanity ; possessed of a catholic charity which " circles 
all the human race," and a nature with but one "prejudice," i. e., a 

347 



348 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

healthy and well-developed hatred of all Puritanism — Puritanism, as 
she understands it, viz., the embodiment of hypocrisy and cant; — 
radically independent in all things ; doing each day " whatever duty 
lies next to her," leaving the results with God. 

"In 1848," says 'Mary Forrest,'* "Virginia Smith and her sister 
returned from school to their father's house, But a new spirit was 
rife in the old home ; its lares and penates had been displaced, and 
the two sisters, ever united by the tenderest ties of sympathy, deter- 
mined to go forth into the world and shape their own destinies. 
Before the close of the year, they were established in Memphis, Ten- 
nessee, as teachers. 

" Strangers in a strange city, they put themselves bravely to their 
self-appointed work, and by their energetic perseverance, no less than 
their personal and intellectual charms, soon won the confidence of all. 

" Having achieved a social and tutorial position, the elder sister 
began to turn her attention to literary pursuits, contributing occasional 
articles to the journals and magazines of that region under the name 
of ' L'lnconnue.' 

"In 1852, she became associated with some gentlemen of New 
Orleans in the publication of the ' Southern Ladies' Book.' 

" On the 12th of January, 1853, she was married to Mr. John H. 
French, of McMinnville, Tennessee." 

Mrs. French has published one volume — a collection of her poems, 
under the title of "Wind Whispers" — »in 1856; and a tragedy, in 
five acts, under the title of " Iztalilxo, the Lady of Tula." She has 
written enough for half a dozen volumes, or more. She takes all 
criticism in the proper spirit, having no fear of the " small snarlers," 
but little reverence for the great ones, and no ambition to become a 
" serf of the booksellers." 

But few ladies whom " we read about " have any deficiencies. Mrs. 
French is the exception which proves the rule. A serious defect in 
her organization is want of application. Had she never married, but 
devoted herself to literature and art, she would assuredly have been emi- 
nently successful. But her life is too full of other attractions — home, 
and home happiness. She entirely repudiates the name of " littera- 
teur;" loves books, but cares no more for being put into them than 
the lark cares for seeing his morning hymn written out on a musical 
score. A great deficiency this want of ambition ; this lack of interest 

* « Women of the South," page 440. 



L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 349 

in her own reputation. She has no consideration for any work that is 
done. An article completed, the excitement of writing it over, is 
thought of no more. Literature, which with her should occupy the 
front rank, does not even take a secondary place in her life and esti- 
mation ; it is merely a kind of little by-play while the real drama of 
life goes on. She scatters here and there the effervescence of an afflu- 
ent intellect, the deeps of which are still clear, calm, and undrawn 
upon. What the public sees of her writings as yet are merely "gold- 
blossoms," sparkling quartz, which indicate the precious ore that lies 
below; the mine itself is un worked, almost untouched. Emphatically 
a child of the sun, her fancies, bright and beautiful as foam-bells on 
the deep, never suggest to you the thought of effort or exhaustion, any 
more than the sigh of an JEolian lyre when " the breeze is spent, inti- 
mates that the mighty billows of the air shall surge no more." Her 
weakness, therefore, so to speak, lies not in any lack of power ; but 
in a lamentable want of exertion. There is no deficiency of nerve to 
grasp a subject, or of power to discuss, or of keen acumen to analyze 
it ; but there is indifference ; and I think it reprehensible to give us 
merely the spicy fragrance flung off from the cinnamon-tree of genius, 
while the principle of sweetness in concentrated strength still lies 
hidden in the heart. Yet if you should undertake to impress upon 
her the wrong she does herself by trifling away gifts so precious, she 
would probably laugh archly in your face, and say, with the philoso- 
phy of a nature rather Sybaritic in its composition, " It is pleasanter 
to enjoy than to labor, more especially when both amount to the same 
thing at last." 

As a litterateur f If (to borrow the simile of a famous critic) the 
gifts of others resemble wealth, hers " is an alchemy. If others, so to 
speak, go out into the mind's Australia, and collect its ores, lying 
thick as morning dews, she remains at home, transmitting all she 
touches into gold." Her language, in its elegance and rhythmic flow, 
is clear and lucid as the pleasant rush of a summer stream ; and it has 
been said that her absolute command of comprehensible words is such 
that many might, with advantage, employ her to translate their 
Pedantese into plain English. I have seriously objected to her want 
of study ; yet I must confess that what she writes, most of us can com- 
prehend. We are not compelled to sit down over any poem of hers, 
gazing with portentous visage and a critic's eye at its obscurity; whis- 
pering at last under our breath : "There are sunbeams in this cucum- 



350 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

ber, if we could but extract them." But she does not put her sun- 
beams into the cucumber form. No ; by all means let us take our 
cucumbers and our sunshine separately. 

" Lady Tranquilla's " chief characteristic in literature is a wonder- 
ful versatility, to which scarce any vein of writing comes amiss, as is 
shown by poems, tales, sketches, letters, etc., written not only at her 
desk "en grande tenue" but scribbled in pencil under some wide- 
spreading tree, by garden-bound or riverside; in short, anywhere and 
everywhere, as the spirit moves her. This versatility is acknowledged 
by our people in the calls they make upon her powers. It fits her 
also to supply that large and constant drain made upon her time and 
talents, of which the world knows nothing. You might be in her 
house for months, and never know she wrote a line, for aught you 
heard or saw ; yet she seems to be a species of perennial fountain, 
from which hundreds of people who never saw her draw supplies of 
strength and comfort ; never dreaming, doubtless, of the drain they 
make upon this " sweet water spring," which gives out its supplies 
freshly and freely ; which asks no return, and thinks of no replenish- 
ing, save what it draws from heaven. A lady, a thousand miles away, 
wants a May-day speech for some young favorite; an agricultural edi- 
tor wants an essay on a given topic ; a political friend wants a letter 
written which shall " bring out all the points ; " a stranger widow 
wants five dollars; a young lady wants a situation as teacher; a novel- 
ist wants a book noticed; and so on, almost ad infinitum; yet all these 
applications are answered with a tranquillity equal to the fountain's, 
and a patience enduring as Job's. I have expected ere this to see her 
grow rather blase; and she has sufficient knowledge of the world to 
make her so. I have expected to see her grow weary of its 

" Dust and decay, 
Weary of throwing her soul-wealth away, 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; " 

but that time seems as yet to linger by the way. In this connection, 
it may be well to say that " Ladj Tranquilla " is accused of being a 
great favorite with contemporary litterateurs. She has probably been 
more be-rhymed and be-sonneted than any other poetess. Her popu- 
larity arises from the fact that she claims no especial literary honors, 
and thus arouses no jealousies. Then, too, she is ever ready to extend 
favors, but asks none in return. She receives innumerable confidences, 



L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 351 

but never confides. N. P. Willis says that " to listen to the confi- 
dences of others, without ever thinking it worth while to burden them 
with yours, is a very good basis for a friendship. Nothing bores peo- 
ple more than to return their secrets with your own." 

Yes, versatility is the " Lady Tranquilla's " forte. It makes her a 
general favorite. It renders her par excellence the journalist. It 
causes her critics to take each a different view. As for instance, Mrs. 
C. A. Warfield regards poetry as Mrs. French's strong point, and says 
of that stinging tribute, " Shermanized : " " Never sprang cooler and 
keener sarcasm from more tranquil lips. It is the flash of the yata- 
ghan from a velvet sheath — the cold, clear gleam of the sword from 
a silver scabbard." 

Mrs. Julia Pleasants Creswell takes the opposite view, and insists 
that "Mrs. French writes the best prose, with the strongest sense in it, 
of any Southern writer." 

That enchanting poetess, Amelia Welby, for years previous to her 
death, ceased to write. It is affirmed that she gave as a reason, that 
she had lost the power, the " faculty divine." It is more than probable 
that as her mind matured and expanded, she felt that she had not the 
power to express what she had keen ability to feel, and I have imag- 
ined that Mrs. French too has grown away from the past. A revolu- 
tion has changed us as a people, and she feels that our present needs 
can scarce be " bodied forth in song." She feels also that she has 
power to write for a purpose, and the fact that those seem to succeed 
best who write for no purpose, keeps her comparatively silent. Her 
broad views and catholicity of character fit her to grapple strongly 
with many moral and social evils. This breadth and cosmopolitanism 
fits her for " shooting her soul " into a score of contradictory charac- 
ters at once, and a novel from her pen would be unique. 

During the late war, by which she in common with all of her South- 
ern sisters was a sufferer and a loser, she wrote many poems and pieces 
of choice prose on the subjects of common interest — distinguished 
from most of contemporaneous writing by their tone of graceful and 
scornful satire, and entire freedom from harshness and vituperation. 

Mrs. French has in MS. a valuable addition to Southern literature, 
in the shape of a novel written during and about the war. 

Still in the prime of life, and happy in her domestic relations, as 
well as comparatively prosperous — for she retains her delightful 
"Forest Home" and landed possessions, it is sincerely hoped that she 



352 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

may put forth her wing once more, and cleave new heights of unex- 
plored atmosphere .* 

We confidently believe that Mrs. French is capable, in her maturity 
of mind, of higher successes than she has yet achieved ; and that her 
imagination, like Burke's, grows ajid strengthens with her years. 

This gradual culmination of powers belongs only to strong natures, 
which grow like the oak-tree, slowly and surely, and remain vigorous 
and green when their frailer companions of the forest lie in ruins. 

1869. 



"MAMMY." 

A Home, Picture of 1860. 



Where the broad mulberry branches hang a canopy of leaves, 
Like an avalanche of verdure, drooping o'er the kitchen eaves ; 
And the sunshine and the shadow dainty arabesques have made 
On the quaint, old oak settle, standing in the pleasant shade ; 
Sits good " Mammy," with the child'un," while the summer afternoon 
Wears the dewy veil of April o'er the brilliancy of June. 

Smooth and snowy is the kerchief, lying folded with an air 

Of matron dignity above her silver-sprinkled hair;. 

Blue and white the beaded necklace, used " of Sundays " to bedeck 

(A dearly cherished amulet) her plump and dusky neck ; 

Dark her neatly-ironed apron, of a broad and ample size, 

Spreading o'er the dress of " homespun," with its many-colored dyes. 

True, her lips are all untutored ; yet how genially they smile, 
And how eloquent their fervor, praying, " Jesus bless de chile ! " 
True, her voice is hoarse and broken ; but how tender its replies ! 
True, her hands are brown and withered ; yet how loving are her eyes ! 
She has thoughts both high and holy, though her brow is dark and low, 
And her face is dusk and wrinkled, but her soul as white as snow. 

An " aristocrat " is " Mammy," in her dignity sedate ; 

" Haught as Lucifer " to " white trash," whom she cannot tolerate ; 

Patronizing, too, to " Master," for she " missed 'im when a boy ; " 

Familiar, yet respectful to the " Mistis ; " but the joy 

Of her bosom is " de child'un," and delightedly she '11 boast 

Of the "born blood" of her darlings — " good askings and queens a'most." 

* Claxton, Remsen & Hafifelfinger, Philadelphia, have recently published (1871) "My 
Roses: a Romance of a June Day," — an interesting novel in Mrs. French's peculiar 
style, — written before the late war. 



L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 353 

There she sits beneath the shadow, crooning o'er some olden hymn, 
"Watching earnestly and willingly, although her eyes are dim ; 
Laughing in her heart sincerely, yet with countenance demure, 
Holding out before "her babies" every tempting little lure — 
Noting all their merry frolics with a quiet, loving gaze, 
Telling o'er at night to "Mistis" all their "cunnin' little ways." 

Now and then her glance will wander o'er the pastures far away, 
"Where the tasselled corn-fields waving, to the breezes rock and sway, 
To the river's gleaming silver, and the hazy distance where 
Giant mountain-peaks are peering through an azure veil of air ; 
But the thrill of baby voices — baby laughter, low and sweet, 
Eecall her in a moment to the treasures at her feet. 

So " rascally," so rollicking, our bold and sturdy boy, 

In all his tricksy waywardness, is still her boast and joy ; 

She '11 chase him through the shrubberies — his mischief mood to cure ; 

" Hi ! whar dat little rascal now ? — de b'ars will git 'im shure ! " 

W^hen caught, she '11 stoutly swing him to her shoulder, and in pride 

Go marching round the pathways — "jus' to see how gran' he ride." 

And the "Birdie" of our bosoms — ah! how soft and tenderly 
Bows good " Mammy's " mother-spirit to her baby witchery ! 
(All to her is dear devotion whom the angels bend to bless, 
All our thoughts of her are blended with a holy tenderness ;) 
Coaxing now, and now caressing — saying,' with a smile and kiss, 
"Jus' for Mammy — dat 's a lady — will it now?" do that or this. 

On the sweet, white-tufted clover, worn and weary with their play, 
Toying with the creamy blossoms, now my little children lay ; 
Harnessed up with crimson ribbons, wooden horses, side by side, 
" Make believe " to eat their " fodder " — (blossoms to their noses tied.) 
Near them stands the willow wagon — in it " Birdie's " mammoth doll, 
And our faithful " Brave" beside them, noble guardian over all. 

Above them float the butterflies, around them hum the bees, 

And birdlings warble, darting in and out among the trees ; 

The kitten sleeps at " Mammy's " side, and two grown rabbits pass, 

Hopping close along the paling, stealing through the waving grass ; 

Gladsome tears blue eyes are filling, and a watching mother prays, 

" God bless ' Mammy ' and my children in these happy, halcyon days." 

45 



354 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

THE BROKEN SENTENCE. 

A Tribute to the late Lieutenant Herndon. 

" A ship went out upon the sea, 

A noble bark, with a gallant, crew " — 

And in herself a richly-freighted argosy of life and love — the ill-fated 
"Central America." That dark and terrible picture of her going down 
amid surging, midnight seas, which has been painted by inexorable fate, and 
hung upon the walls of time's proud temple, is one upon which our whole 
country has looked with "bated breath " and tear-dimmed eyes. Then, afar 
over the ocean waves, "sailed the corsair, death," and, gathered in that 
dread night-picture, there is the armada of the storm-king — the wrathful 
sky above, and the black goal of doom " a hundred fathoms down." But, 
notwithstanding all their terrific grandeur, how small, comparatively, is the 
meed of attention given to those' dread details ! Columbia's eagle eye is 
upon her noble son ; the brave commander, the gallant seaman, the humble 
Christian, the immortal Heexdoist. It is as though that great picture con- 
tained but one solitary human figure — one single object of interest whereon 
the soul may centre her intensest gaze. We see him, as, with that heroic de- 
votion to woman, which was one of his first characteristics, he provides for 
their safety, until every woman and child has left his shattered vessel ; we 
see him don his uniform, the garb in which he so long had served his coun- 
try, and take his last stand at the wheel-house ; we see him uncover to the 
king of terrors, as the doomed ship fetches her last lurch; with tearful, 
straining gaze, we see him signal an approaching boat, and order her to 
keep off and be saved, while he himself went down ; to the last, mindful of 
others and forgetful of self — the soul of a warrior, and the heart of a wo- 
man! 

Beautiful, heroic, and self-sacrificing are such scenes ; but there is, in this 
connection, another still more beautiful and sublime ; it is thus related by 
his kinsman, Lieutenant Maury : 

" As one of the last boats was about to leave the ship, her commander gave his watch 
to a passenger, with the request that it might be delivered to his wife. He wished to 
charge him with a message to her also, but his utterance was choked. 'Tell her — ' he 
said: unable to proceed, he bent down his head, and buried his face in his hands for a 
moment, as if in prayer, for he was a devout man, and a true Christian. In that mo- 
ment, brief as it was, he endured the greatest agony. But it was over now. His crowd- 
ing thoughts no doubt had been of friends and home ; its desolation ; a beloved wife 
and lovely daughter, dependent alone for support 'upon him. God and his country 
would care for them now. Honor and duty required him to stick to his ship, and he 
saw that she must go down." 



L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 355 

"Tell her — " he began, but the thousand waves of an overflowing heart 
came rushing over him, like " high, fierce tides trampling in upon low, lee 
shores," and the last cry of his great soul was drowned amid the tumult. 
Then and there he had " tasted of the bitterness of death," and it was past. 
As we look upon him now, we pause in actual awe before the picture imaged 
in the mind. " Tell her — " said he, but human language had no words to 
body forth the love, the aspiration, the angui «h of that noble soul in this, 
its hour of terrible trial. And so the strong iaan bowed his head upon his 
hands, and bent like a reed before the tempest, feeling only how, in such an 
hour, heart-throbs scorn the mockery of words. Undaunted by the dread 
danger — undismayed when all hearts were failing — gazing unblenching in 
the very face of destruction — ready to take death by the hand and disarm 
him of his terrors, he bowed down unmanned, and overwhelmed by one 
simple, loving memory of her. And now what remains to be said ? What 
could be said, which in pathos and in power would not fall far, far below the 
single and simple reality of that broken and forever unfinished sentence — 
"Tell her— "? 

" Tell her " — what f Ah ! in vain we speculate. In vain we strive 
through blinding tears to read his heart, and say for him what he could not 
say for himself. And it is best as it is. Let us leave it so, nor dare to dese- 
crate with our poor surmises the broken column which the master artist was 
unable to complete. But, do we say forever unfinished ? Will he never tell 
her? 

Far away in some sun-bright " Isle of Balm," more beautiful and more 
radiant than the Amazonian forests through which he once wandered, will 
not the language of the immortal give him power to utter all that which the 
mortal had essayed in vain? Or in that better land will there be a "fulness 
of joy" so soul-absorbing, so complete and perfect, that no remembrance of 
a troubled past, no memory of an unfinished mission, no shadow of our 
imperfect life shall ever dare intrude ? Who of us can tell ? 

Said his wife, upon the first tidings of the shipwreck : " I know he has 
perished. He will stand by his ship to the last, and save others by the sac- 
rifice of himself! " A noble trust — and right nobly redeemed! She knew 
he could not be among the rescued, and still be " himself." And what must 
be her feelings now, as she gazes upon that parting memento, as she thinks 
of the last time he held it in his hand — the wild, terrific scene around him, 
and those two solitary syllables which constitute his dying words ! To her, 
now it is as silent as the loved lips of him who sent it from that scene of 
death ; and justly so — for why should it mark time to her whose eternity 
began with his, who was the life of her life, and soul of her soul ? 

We leave her with her treasures — a broken sentence and a silent keep- 
sake — the first sounding ever in her heart like the murmur of an ocean- 
shell cast forth upon a lonely shore, while the slender hands of the last, 
having ceased to chronicle the flight of time, are ever pointing her away 
into the opening ages of eternity. 



356 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

And have we yet no word to say for him ? The " heart grows full to 
weeping" as we linger above his honored memory — but a nation's acclaim 
is his proudest eulogium, and woman's tears his most fitting epitaph. As 
Nelson fell, he exclaimed : " Thank God ! I have done my duty ! " As 
Webster passed the dread portal which opens into the valley of shadows, he 
murmured : " I still live ! " As Napoleon gathered up life's failing forces to 
battle with the last enemy, he shouted feebly: " Tete d'armee/" But what 
said the heroic Herndon of himself? Nothing. He neither encourages him- 
self with the knowledge of duties well performed — no, he leaves his deeds 
to speak for him ; nor- solaces himself with the idea that he will hereafter 
live in the hearts of his countrymen — no, he leaves that for them to say ; 
nor does he proudly assume his province of command, and go forth to meet 
death as king meets king in battle ; nay, he uncovers to the last conqueror, 
acknowledging him the vicegerent of God, and with a brave heart and firm 
faith goes down with him silently, and grandly too, into the dark abyss of 
ocean, and the darker abyss of an unknown eternity. 

Silent — silent all ! And if we say to the great sea, and the wild winds, 
and the overlooking skies, " Where is he now ? " they are silent also. Per- 
haps, like drifting sea-weed, cast upon some distant strand, his bones bleach 
beneath the fiery sun of the tropics ; perhaps laid softly down by gently 
bearing waters, where 

"coral reefs lie bare, 
And the cold sea-maids sit to sun their streaming hair ; " 

perhaps carried away by the impetuous surge to regions where " night and 
death " have built their thrones — ■ where giant icebergs go thundering down 
the deep — where Euroclydon rolls forth its "stern triumphant psalms," 
and beneath shattered mast and mouldering sail sleep the old Vikings of the 
Northern Sea. In our cemeteries, "stone spells to stone its weary tale" — ■ 
we read records of the loved and lost as the long funeral train is passing by, 
and the dirge is wailing for the dead; but who dares follow him to the grave, 
who went down to death amid the battle of the elements ; whose funeral 
train was long lines of marching billows, and whose burial psalm was the 
volleying thunder and the sounding storm? We may enter the city's splen- 
did mausoleums, and read engraven on brass and marble the virtues of the 
dead ; we may sit down by some lone grave in the forest, whose only monu- 
ment is a cluster of snowy lilies, on which the morning dewdrops write their 
transient epitaph ; but who shall venture down, even in thought, to the 
" dark, unfathomed caves of ocean," where now sleeps the heart which bore 
up bravely against terror, and danger, and death, but broke in the struggle 
to utter one little sentence in loving guise, and so left it forever unsaid? The 
winds and the waves will bring no answer to the questioning voice: "Where 
is he now ? " but we may lay our hands upon our hearts, and answer softly, 
and truly too : " He is here ! he dwells forever in the great heart of his 
country ; " and while we answer thus, we also murmur meekly : " Our God 
has taken that noble spirit into his eternal rest ! " 



MRS. ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. 

IF genuine admiration for Mrs. Ketchum's genius, and the same 
admiration mingled with warm personal regard for herself as a 
Christian gentlewoman and ardent friend, could constitute fitness for 
the labor of love through courtesy assigned me, then this sketch would 
be among the most interesting of all these narratives of " Southern 
Writers." 

It has never been the present writer's good fortune to meet in person 
the lady whose name stands at the head of the present article, but 
several years of familiar correspondence originating in a business 
way, when Mrs. Ketchum was at the head of the "Lotus," (an enter- 
taining magazine established at Memphis in 1858 or '59,) has afforded 
more than a passing glimpse of that earnest, fervent nature which ap- 
pears in everything that emanates from her pen, and constitutes her, 
according to my ability of criticism, the first poetess of the South — 
unless we may place Margaret J. Preston in the same rank with her. 

Of Mrs. Ketchum's prose- writings, I am not qualified to speak in 
detail. The " Ladies' Home," edited jointly by Mrs. French and Dr. 
Powell, gave us, indeed, extracts from " Nelly Bracken," her only pub- 
lished prose volume, unless I mistake, containing specimens of a stvle 
simple, terse, vigorous, and devoid of mannerism ; the " Lotus " edito- 
rials were, oftentimes, tender and touching — imbued with a delicate 
pathos, whatever the theme ; and of her letters — enchanting, artless, 
soul-breathing — I can only say that they seem to me the perfection of 
epistolary writing. Poetry, however, seems to be Mrs. Ketchum's 
natural element, and it is in rhythm that her peculiar bent of mind 
and feeling seeks its outlet. 

My first acquaintance with her name and writings was through a 
poem which appeared in the "Richmond Enquirer" — copied into 
that paper from the " New York Churchman," to which it was origin- 
ally contributed. 

The lines struck me as breathing the very soul of poetry and fervent 
prayer; and, by the way, this religious element pervades almost every- 



357 



358 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

thing she has written, exerting, as I have cause to believe, a wide in- 
fluence upon her daily life. The article alluded to is copied entire, 
thus: 

A MOTHEE'S PEAYEE. 

They sleep. Athwart my white 
Moon-marbled casement, with her solemn mien 
Silently watching o'er their rest serene, 

Gazeth the star-eyed night. 

My girl — sedate, or wild, 
By turns — as playful as a summer breeze, 
Or grave as night on starlit Southern seas, 

Serene, strange woman-child. 

My boy, my trembling star ! 
The whitest lamb in April's tenderest fold, 
The bluest flower-bell in the shadiest wold, 

His gentle emblems are. 

They are but two, and all 
My lonely heart's arithmetic is done 
When these are counted. High and holy One, 

Oh, hear my trembling call ! 

I ask not wealth nor fame 
For these my jewels. Diadem and wreath 
Soothe not the aching brow that throbs beneath, 

Nor cool its fever-flame. 

I ask not length of life 
Nor earthly honors. Weary are the ways 
The gifted tread, unsafe the world's best praise, 

And keen its strife. 

I ask not that to me 
Thou spare them, though they dearer, dearer be 
Than rain to deserts, spring-flowers to the bee, 

Or sunshine to the sea. 

But kneeling at their feet, 
While smiles like summer-light on shaded streams 
Are gleaming from their glad and sinless dreams, 

I would my prayer repeat. 



ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCH UM. 359 

In that alluring land, 
The future — where, amid green, stately bowers, 
Ornate with proud and crimson-flushing flowers, 

Pleasure, with smooth white hand, 

Beckons the young away 
From glen and hill-side to her banquet fair — 
Sin, the grim she-wolf, coucheth in her lair, 

Eeady to seize her prey. 

The bright and purpling bloom 
Of nightshade and acanthus cannot hide 
The charred and bleaching bones that are denied 

Taper, and chrism, and tomb. 

Lord, in this midnight hour 
I bring my lambs to thee. Oh ! by thy truth, 
Thy mercy, save them from th' envenomed tooth 

And tempting poison -flower! 

O Crucified and Crowned, 
Keep us ! We have no shield, no guide but thee. 
Let sorrows come — let Hope's last blossom be 

By Grief's dark tempest drowned ; 

But lead us by thy hand, 
O gentlest Shepherd, till we rest beside 
The still, clear waters, in the pastures wide 

Of thine own sinless land ! 

The " Home Journal " published Mrs. Ketchum's " Christmas Bal- 
lad," of which her beloved "Benny" was the infant hero — Benny, 
whose pious youth gave such high promise of future usefulness and 
parental satisfaction in his career through life, whose last Christmas 
(of 1857) found him keeping the great birthday in his Father's house 
of "many mansions." While he sang the angel's song there, was 
there not one on earth whose heart-throbs kept time to the beat of 
that Christmas carol in its concluding lines ? 

"He is sleeping — brown and silken 
Lie the lashes, long and meek, 
Like caressing, clinging shadows, 
On his plump and peachy cheek ; 



360 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

And I bend above him, weeping 

Thankful tears, oh, undefiled ! 
For a woman's crown of glory, 

For the blessing of a child ! " * 

I think it will be perceived by the specimens already quoted, and 
others which I shall proceed to quote, that Mrs. Ketchum ignores 
mere verbiage in expression ; that each word has its corresponding 
idea, and that — to use a homely, but it seems to me expressive phrase 
— her writings contain no words or phrases thrown in for stuffing. 
She is exceedingly accurate, saying all she means, and no more — a 
style impossible of acquisition to a writer less thoroughly imbued with 
the spirit of his subject. Those who give us sentiment at second-hand 
always betray themselves, if in no other way, by the employment of 
some vehicle of speech a little the worse for long use — some pet 
phrase in demand of poetasters since time, or at least rhyme began. 
Mrs. Ketchum does not dally to adapt these to her thoughts, seeming 
to feel that fresh, strong conception is best expressed in the language 
it originally inspires, and that it confers its own picturesqueness and 
acceptability on its peculiar spontaneous forms of speech. 

In " word-painting," I have thought she rivalled Ruskin at times 
in his peculiar gift. Who — beyond sympathy with the pathetic 
beauty of this "Requiem" — but can see therein the chameleon-tinted 
forests, the "setting" to this central object — the new-made grave? 
Who but breathes the breath of the autumn flowers, and sees their 
tantalizing, brilliant beauty — witnesses the white-winged spirit sweep 
through the " valley's " expanse — and later, the warder-stars come 
out to guard the battlements she has passed, and passed forever ? 

Leaves of the autumn time, 
Crimson and golden, opalesque and brown, 
To this new grave-heap slowly rustling down, 

Come with your low, low chime 
And sing of her, who, spring and summer past, 
In her calm autumn went to heaven at last, 

Where there is no more rime. 

Flowers of the autumn days, 
Bright lingering roses, asters white as snow, 
And purple violets on the winds that go 

Sighing their sad, sad lays, 

* Published in handsome style by S. K. Wells. New York. 1870. 



ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. 361 

Tell with your sweet breath how her spirit fair 
Through life's declining kept its fragrance rare, 
Fresher amid decays. 

Birds of the autumn eves, 
Warbling your last song ere ye plume your wing 
For milder climes, stay awhile and sing 

Where the lone willow grieves; 
Tell of a nest secure from storm and blast, 
Where her white wing — the shadowy valley past — 

Bests under heavenly eaves. 

Stars of the autumn night — 
Crowned warders on the rampart of the skies, 
With your bright lances holy mysteries 

Upon the gravestone write; 
Tell of the new name given to the free 
In that fair land beyond the silent sea, 

Where Christ is Lord and Light. 

God of the wind and rain, 
Seed-time and harvest, summer-time and sleet ! 
Stricken and woful, at Thy kingly feet 

We bow amid our pain ! 
Help us to find her where no falling leaf 
Xor parting bird doth tell of death and grief, 

Where Thou alone dost reign. 

Mrs. Ketchum was born and her early life passed in that pictu- 
resque portion of her State among the crags of the old Elkhorn Kiver. 
But I must let her tell something of herself: 

" We were three, we fatherless sisters — three little ones in the old Kentucky 
home, watched over by three older grown-up sisters, to whom we were seve- 
rally awarded by our dear widowed mother, when our father was called home 
to heaven. Day by day, when dismissed from the study where our elder sis- 
ters taught us, we shouted among the hills, we plashed in the flashing streams. 
Night after night, in the long, snowy winters, we knotted ourselves in the 
chimney corner, and listened with wide-open eyes to our dear black nurse's 
marvellous tales, or, covered up in the warm nursery bed, whispered together 
of Sinbad the Sailor, with half-closed, sleepy eyes, and at last went off from 
the fairy world of child romance into the fantastic realm of dreams." 

The above prefaced a sad narration of domestic affliction, the loss 
of one of the devoted trio of sisters above spoken of; and in connec- 
tion with it, I copy one of the " Lotus " editorials, " Under the Leaves," 
40 



362 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

which I think (without any authority whatever) had for its subject 
the lamented one just mentioned. 

" We have a pleasant shade now, children, under the leaves. There are 
delicate buds peering out from the leaves of the rose, and glistening emerald 
beads on the jasmine sprays, almost bursting to display their golden cups. 
See, out on the slopes, and under the budding trees, the fresh young grass 
lies like a velvet carpet. The weeping-willows that lean over the high, 
white wall of the cemetery are fringed with tender leaves ; and yellow jon- 
quils, growing on the graves, are tolling their golden bells in every breeze 
that whispers among the cedars. It is spring-time, and you know all the 
world is gay in the spring ; but the Lotus cannot dance with Laeta now, 
when the March wind blows his merry, boisterous fife, and the hyacinths, 
awakened from their sleep, nod and swing in the gamesome frolic. 

" There is a gentle river far away, where the rock-moss clings to the tall, 
gray cliffs, where the wild rose climbs like a fearless child, and over whose 
clear, murmuring waters the sycamore-trees stretch out their long, white 
arms in silent benediction. Its waters flow into the Kentucky, the Kentucky 
bears them to the Ohio, and the Ohio leads them at last to join the armied 
waves of this grand old river marching to the sea, on whose banks our leafy 
bower is built. The waters of that far-off stream are singing a death-song 
now : they have murmured it all the way from the far Kentucky hills, past 
cities and towns and plantations, where light-hearted children were playing, 
but none of them understood its meaning — its story was not for them. It 
tells to the trembling Lotus, as she leans to the solemn water, how the tall, 
red mountain-pinks will lift their heads on those distant crags, watching in 
vain for the pleasant eyes that sought them every spring ; how the sycamore 
leaves will stop their whisperings to listen for the light footfall that will 
rustle the dead leaves at their hoary roots no more ; and day and night the 
Lotus will kiss the blessed waves that a little while ago bathed fair and dainty 
feet that were whiter than her petals, and mirrored a face that is hid be- 
neath the violets now. 

"Laeta, joyful Laeta, has an elder sister, with soft, brown eyes and sweet, 
majestic manners. Her name is Lucia. She is wise and thoughtful. 
Through deepest darkness of sorrow she opens a path of light, and where 
there are only thorny thickets, she can show us safe and pleasant passages. 
She has sung with the night- wind in the ear of the sorrowing Lotus the story 
of One who taught the whole world patience in the garden of Gethsemane ; 
she has written on the morning clouds the wondrous legend of the King's 
Daughter, whose raiment is of wrought gold, and on whose forehead shines 
the morning-star. Laeta is singing with the mocking-birds; we can hear 
them in the wood. It is her office to rejoice with every joyful thing. She is 
good and innocent, and always lovely and unselfish ; but Lucia is wiser and 
knows better what to say when the white rabbit strays away, and the rain 
washes up the newly -planted flower-seeds, and the black crape hangs at the 
silent door." 



ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. 363 

I cannot better conclude this imperfect narration than by adding 
that the fortunes of our late civil contest left this lady bereft of most 
her worldly goods, if not all; and that, with true courage, and zeal, 
and faith, she set herself to the practical work of earning her own 
living. Her fine mind found employment in the duties of a teacher 
in the large female school or college conducted in Memphis by a 
brother of General J. E. B. Stuart; and until an almost ruined state 
of health incapacitated her for the exertion, she remained in the insti- 
tution, illustrating the worthlessness of the doctrine that literary 
women are an incubus upon the body social, separate from their pens 
and ink; and, moreover, substantiating the fact that Southern women 
are worthy of all that has been ascribed to them in high heroism — 
true adaptation of themselves to the changed circumstances their 
mother-land's misfortunes have brought peculiarly home to them. 
1868. Mary J. S. Upshur. 




MRS. CLARA COLES. 

IN 1861, J. B. "Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, published a beautiful 
volume, entitled " Clara's Poems." " Clara " is Mrs. Coles, at that 
time and now residing in the city of Nashville. 

"These poems are in many respects well worthy the mechanical labor 
expended upon their proper presentation; for though they cannot 
claim, and never were meant to claim a place amid the standard po- 
etry of the language, they are worth, well worth perusal and preserv- 
ation. Classic in structure, thought, or imagery, they are far from 
being ; elaborateness of verbal finish has not been bestowed upon them ; 
they neither paint nor awaken any of those undeveloped passions, or 
even sentiments, the revelation of which entitles the poet to the proud 
title of " original ; " but they deal simply and chastely, yet often warm- 
ly, with those tender sorrows and feminine fancies felt and nursed by 
most cultured females, especially by those who have passed much of 
life far from the frivolities of good society, and dreamed, amid crowds, 
of heart experiences never realized save to those whose solitariness of 
sentiment is by circumstances wedded to solitariness of life. The 
conclusion is forced on the reader of these poems, that the writer had 
a vague consciousness of possessing a fund of poesy, but had never 
developed it. 

" The very simplicity attained, seems to arise from a dread of using 
powers, thoughts, and imagery of whose real worth and meaning she 
was timidly dubious. She is a pleasing versifier, possessed of poetic 
instincts, but lacking poetic power. She might have been a poet and 
a good one : her book reveals this pleasingly and clearty, but it does 
no more. This is one side of the verdict of strict impartiality, and 
were we to stop here it were partiality itself, for we should omit the 
better features of the poems — music, morality, and a prevailing tone 
of religious effect, unobtruded, yet, unconsciously to the writer herself, 
pervading the whole book, and fitting it admirably for the parlor- 
table, or what-not — a book that may ever safely and profitably be 
placed within easy reach of young lovers of poesy, in the certainty of 
364 



CLARA COLES. 365 

yielding pleasure, inflicting no pain and teaching no error. Would 
we could say the same of greater poets ! " Thus said a critic in the 
''Southern Monthly," 1861. 

John T. Edgar, D. D., in an " introductory " to " Clara's Poems," says : 

" 'Clara ' is truly retiring, and as delicate in her claims to attention, as 
she is in the sweet images which are so meekly and touchingly conspicuous 
in many of the more tenderly pathetic of her pieces. It will be seen that 
the great charm of her verse is found, not in their classical allusions or ro- 
mantic imagery, but in the simple appeals which they so winningly make to 
all that is unartifieial, uncorrupted, truthful, and responsive in the more pure 
and gentle emotions of every unsophisticated heart. She has had no learned 
resources from which to draw her inspirations. To such fountains, no for- 
mer familiarity or more recent acquaintance could have enabled her to re- 
sort. The school in which many of her most impressive lessons have been 
taught has been that of disappointment and sorrow ; and to such lessons 
we are indebted for many of the finest and most thrilling stanzas of her often 
plaintive and pensive muse." 

1S69. 

SABBATH MORN. 

Bathed in the orient flush of morn, . 

How lovely earth appears ! 
New tints the opening rose adorn, 

Gemm'd with night's dewy tears. 
Soft, whispering breezes sigh around, 

And snowy cloudlets lie 
Like angel watchers, floating through 

The calm, pure, azure sky. 

The mountain-tops reflect the rays 

That usher in the day-god's beams; 
The birds trill forth their songs of praise ; 

The wave in gold and crimson gleams: 
Oh, beautiful ! My spirit drinks 

In copious draughts of love divine, 
While gazing on this glorious scene, 

And worships at a holier shrine 

Than mortal hands could ever rear, 

Or mortal language e'er portray; 
For angel voices, murmuring near, 

Seem wafting my glad soul away. 



366 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Sweet, tranquil morn I so clear, so calm ; 

What soft emotions fill my breast I 
Bright emblem of that glorious dawn — 

A Sabbath of eternal rest ! 

ADELIA C. GRAVES. 

THE stone on-which it is written that such a one was born, lived 
so many years, and died, often furnishes the only record of a 
long and useful life, of patient suffering and unrequited toil ; yet 
even this is frequently more than the great world cares to read. 

The life that has in it no thrilling incident, no wonderful event, no 
startling tragedy, or mirth-exciting comedy, but which is spent in the 
quiet performance of every-day duties, has little in it to attract atten- 
tion from those outside the circle of personal friends. 

Such a life is that of Mrs. Adelia C. Graves, the devoted wife, the 
self-sacrificing mother, the accomplished teacher, and the gifted poet. 
Had she persisted in following the impulses of her early years, and 
devoted her life entirely to the pursuits of literature, something would 
doubtless have been accomplished which would have caused the world 
to feel much interest in her biography. 

She was born March 17th, 1821, at Kingsville, Ashtabula County, 
in the State of Ohio, and spent her early life upon the romantic shores 
of Lake Erie. Her father, Dr. D. M. Spencer, was a physician of 
ability and reputation. He was a man of uncommon mental power, 
and at one time exerted no small influence in the political circles of 
his State. But his friends having been defeated in their endeavors to 
secure his nomination to Congress by the wire-working of his anti- 
slavery opponent, the noted Joshua R. Giddings, he withdrew from 
further participation in a conflict where success could be gained only 
by the use of such means as neither he nor his friends were willing to 
employ. When Mr. Giddings was elected, Dr. Spencer declared that 
the ultimate result would be the dissolution of the Union, and a fratri- 
cidal war between the North and South. About a quarter of a cen- 
tury has elapsed since that prediction, then denounced as the insane 
ravings of disappointed ambition. 

The children of Dr. Spencer, one by one, as they were free to do so, 
came and united their destinies with the South. Three of them are 
buried in Southern soil, and the subject of this sketch is the only one 
left. 



ADELIA C. GRAVES. 367 

Miss Spencer had in her early girlhood resolved to devote her life 
to literature. The Muses had been the companions of her childhood. 
Stanzas written before she was nine years old are models of correct 
versification, and exhibit the beautiful simplicity of expression and 
happy choice of words which characterize the productions of her more 
mature years. She wrote because she could not restrain the flow of 
bright and beautiful thoughts that were forever welling up from her 
young heart, and taking shape in simple, child-like rhymes. 

She loved to be alone — passing her time on the pebbly beach, or 
in the grand old forests that had stood a thousand years near where 
she had been born. There she could commune with the invisible. 
There, with no mortal ear to heed, and no tongue to criticize or blame, 
she could w T arble out the extemporized lays which would be ever 
coming to her tongue. Her love of nature was a passion, the record 
of which is beautifully given in some of her earliest unpublished 
poems. 

Miss Spencer married a teacher, Z. C. Graves, President at that 
time of Kingsville Academy, since founder and President of Mary 
Sharpe College, Winchester, Tenn. 

To Mr. Graves, the highest of all employments, save one, the Gospel 
ministry, was that of training the minds of the young. The goal of 
his ambition was to become the greatest of living teachers : not great- 
est in the amount of money he might amass by teaching, nor yet in 
the reputation he might gain as the manager of a school; but greatest 
in his capacity to communicate knowledge, and secure the very high- 
est possible development of the moral and intellectual powers of those 
who should be objects of his care. In this he was at once seconded 
by his wife with all the energy of her soul. So long as health and 
strength permitted, she was with him in the school-room, sharing fully 
with her husband, not only in its labors, but in all its responsibilities. 

A few years after her marriage, Mrs. Graves received a sad injury, 
which has crippled her physical energies ever since. For five years, 
at first, she could not walk across her room ; and oftentimes now, she 
is unable to walk a short distance. 

In 1850, Mr. Graves, as President, laid the foundation of the Mary 
Sharpe College, at Winchester. It was designed to be an institution 
in which the daughters of the South could secure, not merely the fash- 
ionable accomplishments of an ordinary boarding-school education, 
but the same mental discipline and extensive knowledge of ancient 



368 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

and modern languages, the higher mathematics, and the natural sci- 
ences which our sons could gain at the very best colleges or universi- 
ties of the land. The wonderful success of this institution depended, 
for the first few years, very much" upon the patient labor, the indefati- 
gable energy, and the judicious counsels of Mrs. Graves. 

That characteristic of Mrs. Graves's poetry which most commends 
it to our taste, is its extreme naturalness and simplicity of expression. 
They are beautiful word-paintings, in which every line of light and 
shade is distinct upon the mental canvas ; yet there is no labor for 
effect, no straining after rhymes, no far-fetched similes ; but the verse 
is in simple Anglo-Saxon words, with a predominance of monosylla- 
bles, singing its music as it goes. The rhyming words are there simply 
because no other words would so well express the thought. Yet while 
it is thus unstudied and simple, thus devoid of all artistic display, it 
is full of 

" Thoughts not thought before," 

full of the beautiful and the grand. 

Mrs. Graves's first-born — the child of hope and promise — fills a 
soldier's grave ! The war and its consequences nearly ruined them 
pecuniarily. Mrs. Graves at the present time occupies the position of 
Matron and Professor of Rhetoric in the College. She was formerly 
Professor of Latin and Belles-lettres. 

The Baptist Sunday School Union have published eight little vol- 
umes for Sunday-school children, mostly selected from the " Children's 
Book," which Mrs. Graves edited for several years, and for which she 
wrote a great deal. These books, at the request of the " committee of 
the Union," she compiled from her sketches therein published. 'She 
has contributed to different periodicals, mostly fugitive poems, and 
two prose tales, one a prize tale ; and " Ruined Lives," published in 
the " Southern Repository," Memphis, constitute, with the drama of 
" Jephthah's Daughter," her published works. She has a quantity of 
MSS. on hand, written as a pleasure and a solace; in fact, because she 
could not help writing. She is engaged now on a work, entitled 
" Seclusaval ; or, The Arts of Romanism," several chapters of which 
have been published in the " Baptist," at Memphis. 

Mrs. Graves's aim is to instruct and to do good with her pen ; con- 
sequently, she has tried rather to repress a somewhat exuberant youth- 
ful fancy. If Mrs. Graves's health will admit, she hopes to publish 
several volumes, and also to collect her published and unpublished 



ADELIA C. GRAVES. 369 

poems. She has a work on "Woman: Her Education, Aims, Sphere, 
Influence, and Destiny," (which has been delivered as lectures to the 
pupils of the college;) "A Guide and Assistant to Composition ; " and 
a poem, entitled "Alma Grey" — all of which we hope to see in 
print. 

1868. 

HUMAN SOVEREIGNTY; OR, EVERY MAN A KING. 

To the young men of our beloved Southland, who, repining not at the past, or despond- 
ingly brooding over what might have been, have yet the courage to accept their situ- 
ation as it is, and the energetic exercise of whose wisdom, goodness, and virtue is yet 
to constitute the true wealth and freedom of a fallen people, the following poem is 
most respectfully dedicated, with the assurance that gold, bank-stock, lands, cotton- 
bales, and negroes make no man rich or great; but the real wealth of any country is 
to be estimated by the amount of the active intelligence and virtue of its sons and 
daughters. Resurgamus. 

Victoria sitteth on a throne, with thronging nobles round, 
And with a rich and jewelled crown her queenly brow is bound, 
While thousand hands, at her behest, perform her slightest will, 
And only wait a wish to know, with pleasure to fulfil. 

Her kingdom is the sea-girt isles, and far-off India's shore, 
And stretches from the northern snows to great Niagara's roar ; 
While ocean-gems are crouching low her lion arms to greet, 
And strong Gibraltar humbly kneels a subject at her feet. 

Queen of a mighty realm, she rules o'er lands so widely spread, 
And fearful weight of royalty resteth upon her head ; 
Millions of beings yield to her their life-career to guide, 
While Wisdom, with its hoary hairs, must her decrees abide. 

But thou, young man, with sun-browned cheek, a tiller of the soil, 
Which, with the fruits it yieldeth thee, rewardeth all thy toil — 
The labor-gems that gird thy brow have value rich and great 
As diadems of jewels rare that burden by their weight. 

Thy God hath given to thee a realm, and made thee, too, a king ; 
And willing subjects unto thee their votive offerings bring ; 
While thou must reign a sovereign lord, with undisputed sway, 
Or yield the master-spirit's rule the subject to obey. 

" My mind to me a kingdom is," * wrote one who suffered long 
Within the Bastile's gloomy walls, 'mid gratings high and strong ; 

* Madame Guyon, confined on account of her religion. 
47 



370 LIVING FEMALE WKITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 

And, like a bird, she sat and sang to him who placed her there ; 
Although a bird shut from the fields of sunlight and of air. 

Well was that inborn realm subdued, thus faithfully to bring 
The fruits of joy and sweet content, and pleasant memories fling 
Among the hopes that budded thick within that grated room, 
Where yet the sunlight of the heart in gushing floods could come. 

Youth, with the generous impulses that crowd thy opening way, 
Thou 'rt each a king — monarch supreme — an empire owns thy sway : 
5 T is true thou wear'st no purple robe, no glittering, golden crown, 
Nor bear'st a jewelled sceptre's wand t' enforce thy haughty frown : 

Thy kingdom is no wide-spread land, girt by the heaving wave ; 
But of thyself thou Wt ruler all, from childhood to the grave ; 
And he who hath a high-born soul, a true and kindly heart, 
Addeth to " human sovereignty " its most distinguished part. 

No princely dome is thine to boast, no costly marble walls 
Eeared by the sweat of toiling men, who must obey thy calls ; 
No pictures of proud artists' skill, no tessellated floors 
That echo to the courtly tread of those within thy doors. 

Thy palace is the wide-spread earth, its dome the arching sky ; 
And far more bright than gorgeous lamps the light that meets thy eye ■ 
The glorious sun at morning's hour, the flashing stars at eve, 
Among whose rays the moonbeams too their silver tissue weave. 

The Architect who built for thee hath fashioned for thy view 
Full many a scene of beauty rare, bright flowers of Eden hue, 
The greenwood shade, the waterfall, the mountain tipped with mist, 
Whose sunny heights and dusky grots the amber clouds have kissed. 

What though- earth trumpet not thy fame across her lakes and seas, 
Nor silken banner waft it forth upon the floating breeze ? 
If in thy peaceful breast there lives the consciousness of right, 
Thou 'rt happier than a conqueror returning from the fight. 

What though no herald's blazonry trace back thy ancient name, 
And find unmixed with vulgar blood thy royal lineage came ? 
Man's acts proclaim nobility, and not the kingly crest ; 
For he 's the noblest who performs life's trying duties best. 

And should men scorn thy mean attire, and dare to call thee "slave," 
Hold up thy head, king of thyself, and be thou truly brave ; 
For God hath given thee sovereignty of soul, and mind, and heart, 
And absolute thy power must be till life itself depart. 



MARY E. POPE. 371 

Then arm that soul with heaven-born truth, with justice, and with love ; 
And fill thy mind with knowledge too, foul error to remove ; 
Stir well the ground of thy young heart, that it produce no weeds, 
But precious fruits of charity, and treasures of good deeds. 

Ay, let thy bosom wear the robe of high-born honesty, 

And truth gird e'en thy secret acts with its pure panoply ; 

Then, knowledge-crowned, thy brow serene with holy light shall glow, 

And rays of living radiance o'er a darkened world shall throw. 

And thou 'It so rule this precious realm bestowed, fair youth, on thee, 
That when is asked thy last account thou 'It give it joyfully ; 
Nor fear abash thy pallid cheek, nor tremble on thy tongue, 
To meet the Universal King and mingle with his throng. 

Prince of humanity ! self's rightful, heaven-born lord ! 
Virtue and goodness bring their own exceeding great reward : 
Be free from passion's rule, from ignorance and pride, 
And there 's no noble?' work than man, the Godhead's self beside. 



MRS. MARY E. POPE. 

MRS. POPE'S maiden name was Mary E. Foote. She is a native 
of Huntsville, Ala. She married, when young, Mr. Leroy Pope. 

Mr. and Mrs. Pope made their home in Memphis, where she has 
resided since. Her life has been chequered by misfortune and sorrow, 
which have only seemed to give occasion for the development of the 
lofty and noble qualities of her nature. Mrs. Pope is the mother of 
Lieutenant TV. S. Pope, killed at Tishemingo Creek, and mentioned in 
the life of General Bedford Forrest. 

Mrs. Pope has grappled with adversity with a bold, unquailing 
spirit, and ridden triumphant over the storms of life. She has charge 
of a nourishing school for young ladies in Memphis, which sufficiently 
attests the indomitable energy dwelling in her slender and fragile 
figure. 

The sweet murmurings of her muse may be frequently heard float- 
ing on the breeze, in the Memphis journals. 



372 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



THE GIFT OF SONG. 

If, when bright visions o'er thee throng, 
They clothe themselves in words of song, 
And strengthen and refresh thy soul ; 
Though weak and faint the numbers roll, 

Yet fear not thou to sing. 
If common life to thee keep tune 
Unto thy spirit's chaunting rune, 
And all the actual grows bright 
'Neath fancy's soft ideal light, 

Thou hast the power to sing. 
If in each living, human face, 
Thy unsealed eye doth love to trace, 
Through sin's dark, loathsome, outward form, 
God's image, ever pure and warm, 

Thou art a poet; sing. 
When sorrow bows thy burdened head, 
And lurid clouds thy path o'erspread, 
If in thy grief, on radiant wing, 
The muse doth woo thee to her spring, 

Fear not to sip and sing. 
When life blooms like a new-made bride, 
With hope and love and grateful pride, 
And earth to thy illumined eye 
With Aiden seems in sheen to vie; 

If joy is tuneful, sing. 
When morning blushes o'er the earth 
With rosy softness, bloom, and mirth, 
And birdlings from each jewelled spray 
Woo thee to hail the new-born day; 

If music haunt thee, sing. 
If, when thy glances seek the sky, 
Where sunset hues its pavement dye, 
Thy fettered spirit clank its chain, 
Struggling to make its utterance plain; 

Unbind the links and sing. 
It may be that thy lyre's faint tone 
No magic master-key may own ; 
Thy falt'ring steps may fail to reach 
In fame's great temple-shrine a niche; 

But yet fear not to sing. 



MARY E. POPE. 373 

As well the twitt'ring wren might fear 
With his soft strain the day to cheer 
Because the nightingale's rich note 
More proudly sweet at eve doth float, 

And thus refuse to sing, 
As thou, because on stronger wing 
Thy brothers scale fame's height and sing — 
Their grand, immortal harps will wake 
A thousand lesser shells to take 

Part in creation's hymn. 
The heaven-descended, god -like power 
To mortals is a priceless dower. 
Some hearts in silent grief may ache ; 
But some, if mute, e'en joy would break, 

And, sad or glad, must sing. 
But if to thee no radiant sheen 
Light up the roughest human mien; 
If life wear not a glorious light, 
Beyond what beams on common sight, 

Be still, nor dare to sing. 
If human faith and human love 
In thee no sacred worship move; 
If in bright nature's open eye 
No great, eternal beauty lie, 

Be sure thou canst not sing. 
If thy calm pulse and even blood 
Course not at times a lava flood, 
With suffocating rush of thought, 
By noble deeds or evil brought, 

Such cool blood cannot sing. 
Touch not with hand profane the lyre, 
Unbaptized with the sacred fire. 
Study may give the tricks of art, 
But cannot the bard's power impart 

To other souls to sing. 



MARTHA W. BROWN. 



MARTHA W. FRAZER was born in Alabama, from which State 
her parents emigrated in her infancy to Memphis, at that time a 
small town. Old Court Square was the playground of Martha's ear- 
liest school-days ; under its ancient trees she had many a frolic with 
girls and boys whose silvery hair now tells the tale of many winters, 
but the most of whom have passed to the " other shore." 

In those early days, Memphis was a commercial rather than a 
literary place, and the schools were deficient ; and, in order better to 
secure the education of his children, on which he was steadfastly de- 
termined, Mr. Frazer removed to La Grange, at that time considered 
the Lyceum of the West. After several years at this town, Mr. Frazer 
removed to Holly Springs — a rising and progressive town at that time, 
and it was here that the greater portion of Martha Frazer's education 
was accomplished, and here the " poet fledging took wing." " It is 
pleasant to see one's verse in print," and Miss Frazer published nu- 
merous poems in "Southern Literary Messenger," &c, and, wielding an 
easy and graceful pen, she had cause for encouragement for the future. 
But "love" supplanted "fame," and, in 1849, she became the wife of 
R. B. Brown, a lawyer by profession. Mr. Brown died in 1864. 

The most auspicious period of Mrs. Brown's literary career was under 
the genial patronage of the late Colonel J. H. McMahon. To his 
warm friendship and encouragement the world owes many of " Estelle's " 
poems. To the timid and doubtful, a kind word and encouraging 
smile are the waft of a fairy's wand, bringing to life beautiful creations 
that else might have slumbered in darkness and oblivion forever. 

Mrs. Brown's residence is in Memphis. It has been beautifully said 
of the following lines, " They are of the very essence of the poetry of 
the heart." 

THOU ART GROWING OLD, MOTHER. 

Thou art growing old, mother, 

Thy voice is gentler now 
Than when a little child, mother, 

I gazed upon thy brow. 

374 



MARTHA W. B 11 OWN. 375 

For thou art nearer home, mother, 

And music, soft and bland, 
Has wakened in thy heart, mother, 

Dreams of the " better land." 

Thou art growing old, mother, 

That measured step of thine 
Was once as free and light, mother, 

As full of life as mine. 
I hear its fall e'en now, mother, 

I know its quiet air, 
And standing by my side, mother, 

I feel that thou art there. 

Thou art growing old, mother, 

The dark and glossy hair 
That, clambering on thy knee, mother, 

I've stroked with so much care, 
Waves still as softly now, mother, 

Yet higher on thy head, 
And 't is sprinkled over now, mother, 

With many a silver thread. 

Thou art growing old, mother, 

Yet do we love thee less? 
Do we not feel for thee, mother, 

A deeper tenderness? 
The never-tiring form, mother, 

The pale and careworn brow, 
That nursed our helpless years, mother, 

Ah, we will cherish now. 

Thou art growing old, mother, 

But soon the vernal bloom 
Of life's eternal morn, mother, 

Will burst upon thy tomb. 
And on the "other side," mother, 

Beyond the stormy swell, 
Of Jordan's death-cold stream, mother, 

Is one who loves thee well. 

He waiteth for the bride, mother, 
That blest his manhood's prime. 



376 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH, 

The pilgrim by his side, mother, 

Adown the stream of time. 
He waiteth for the wife, mother, 

Faithful and true to him, 
And constant to the last, mother, 

When life in death grew dim. 

Then let the dream of life, mother, 
~ Close softly round thy heart, 
As evening's gentle dews, mother, 

When clouds and storms depart; 
Believing that the sun, mother, 

That rises on that night, 
Brings all that loved ones home, motner, 

To their father's home of light. 



>•&$< 



AMANDA M. BEIGHT. 

AMANDA METCALFE was born in Lexington, Ky., 1822. While 
she was an infant, Mr. Barnett Metcalfe, her father, removed to 
Huntsville, Ala. In the female seminary of that city, Amanda 
received a portion of her limited education. At the age of twelve 
her school-days ended ; but, inheriting from her father a love for 
books, she read and studied without the help of a teacher. She was 
married to Mr. Bright at the age of sixteen, and entered at this early 
age into many trials of a domestic character, that palsied her natural 
abilities, and "shut the hatches" upon those importunate promptings 
to write which were not gratified until a recent date. 

Mrs. Bright was separated from her husband in 1860. Her eldest 
son was killed at the battle of "Seven Pines," and less than two years 
thereafter her only child died. The incentives to action of any kind 
were now wanting ; but she conceived the design of writing a book, 
hoping to realize a sufficient sum from the sale of the same to erect a 
monument to her son. Of this design was born " The Three Bernices ; 
or, Ansermo of the Crag," Philadelphia, 1889. Thus reviewed by the 
"Round Table," New York: 

"... The task the lady has assumed is not an easy one. Pew writers suc- 
ceed in investing the dry bones of ancient history with life and reality ; and 



ANNIE E. LAW. 377 

when the drapery of fiction has been successfully adopted to hide the bare, 
hard outline, the writers of historic romances have put together graphic and 
entertaining stories — which is not the case in the present instance — by 
means of which they have brought home to their readers the everyday 
features of past ages, investing them with vitality, and affording information 
as well as amusement. The present author contents herself with giving a 
succession of striking and varied pictures of Eoman life in the reign of 
Agrippa, without much compunction concerning the inroads she makes upon 
historical probability; and, upon the presumption that ancient history is a 
'tolerable pattern for guess-work/ she undertakes the ' rehabitation ' of 
Bernice, by assuming that there were three persons of that name who lived 
about the same period, and that some of the acts charged to one may justly 
be laid on the shoulders of the other two. The infamous Agrippina's 
memory is in like manner rescued from obloquy by taking up her story 
where the Roman historian leaves it, and causing her to repent of her crimes 
and become a Christian. . . . 

" Mrs. Bright is by no means deficient in imagination, nor in the capacity for 
weaving plots ; her fault is that she weaves too many, and gets them confused. 
But, with the aid of experience, we doubt not that her next story will be more 
worthy of perusal, and in every respect more satisfactory to herself. She 
must learn, however, to chasten the richness and exuberance of her style." 

Mrs. Bright has been an occasional contributor to several weekly 
journals, in prose and verse. She has in preparation several stories : 
"The Prince of Seir" is the title of one. Like her first book, this is a 
" historical " romance. Her home is Fayetteville, Tennessee. 
1871. 



MISS ANNIE E. LAW 

IS of English birth. She is now a resident of Philadelphia, East 
Tennessee. Her poetical abilities are of rare order, and give 
promise of excellence as a writer hereafter. 

1S70. W. G. M. 

MEMORIES. 

Oh, there are memories that linger in the heart, 
And oft awake with warm and gushing tide; 

Thoughts of the past from which we would not part 
For all the illusive Future gives beside. 
48 



378 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Once more — once more — to wander by the river 
That winds among the gently sloping hills, 

To see again the lights and shades that quiver 
In bright mirrors of the ever- sparkling rills. 

Oh, for the path meandering o'er the mountain, 
The tangled vines and branches by its side, 

The mosses creeping in the shaded fountain, 
The- woodland nooks where fairest flowerets hide! 

The old oak-tree that stands before the door 
Will keep its corner in my heart forever; 

Though home it shelters I may see no more 
While life remains, I can forget it never. 

The blissful memories of our earlier years 

In silence haunt the soul through joy or pain ; 

And on their mighty stream, the smiles and tears 
Of happy childhood o'er us sweep again. 





!?TW 



VIRGINIA, 




MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON. 

ARGARET JUNKIN is the second daughter of the Rev. 
George Junkin, D. D., a Presbyterian divine of some note 
in the Southern portion of that Church. Dr. Junkin was 
s~>a President of Lafayette College, Easton, Pa., and of Wash- 
ington College, Lexington, Va. The successor of the Rev. Dr. Junkin 
in the presidential chair of the latter College was Robert E. Lee. 
" Stonewall " Jackson was one of its professors in the term of Dr. 
Junkin, whose eldest daughter was the wife of the famous Confederate 
leader. 

Miss Junkin was a frequent contributor to the " Southern Literary 
Messenger " during the editorship of John R. Thompson. 

In 1870, J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, published " Old 
Songs and New," a collection of Mrs. Preston's poems, which were 
reviewed in the London " Saturday Review " thus : 

" ' Old Songs and New ' is the title of one of the best volumes of Amer- 
ican poetry that have lately appeared. The authoress has not the fire of 
Whittier, the scholarship of Bryant, or the originality and power of Lowell, 
and most of her poems appear to have a certain imitative character, as if the 
subject and mode of treatment had been suggested by her admiration of some 
well-known models. Nevertheless, her thoughts and expression are her own ; 
and though, perhaps, we should never have seen her pieces on classical themes 
if she had not made acquaintance with Mr. Lowell's ' Rhcecus,' and Lord 
Lytton's ' Tales of Miletus/ we cannot fairly rank her best ' Greek Stories ' 
k much below their prototypes. Her domestic pieces are marked by a grave 
and truly feminine tenderness, and are likely to be read with pleasure by 
hundreds who, if they would own it, are more capable of appreciating their 
simple beauties than the splendor and majesty of the masterpieces of English 
poetry." 



380 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

In 1857, she published a volume, entitled "Silverwood : A Book of 
Memories." 

Colonel J. T. L. Preston, the husband of the subject of this article, 
is one of the faculty of the Virginia Military Institute, at Lexington. 

Mrs. Preston's most ambitious effort is the poem of " Beechenbrook : 
A Rhyme of the War." 

Mrs. Preston has written because she " thought in numbers, and the 
numbers came,"- not for popular notice, nor from necessity, as, alas ! so 
many of her countrywomen have been forced to do since the war, by 
the reverses of fortune. She is so happy as to be lifted above want or 
accidents of poverty. She has written for pastime and from patriot- 
ism, as the amusement in the pleasant idleness of a life devoted not to 
literature, but to the womanly cares and pleasures which a large 
establishment, husband, children,, and " society " force upon her. 

Mrs. Preston was a frequent contributor from its commencement to 
the " Land we Love; " General Hill, its editor, being a w T arm personal 
friend of hers. She also contributes to various other Southern journals. 
We subjoin some critiques, Northern and Southern, of " Beechen- 
brook " — the first taken from the " Round Table," the second from 
the " Field and Fireside : " 

" Beechenbrook : A Rhyme or the War,. — A publisher's printed esti- 
mate of the sale of his publications is usually somewhat imaginative ; to use 
a threadbare but serviceable quotation, 'The wish is often father to the 
thought.' Yet in this case we see no reason to doubt the entire veracity of 
Messrs. Kelly & Piet in announcing l fifth thousand ' on the title-page of 
this volume. It is one which, we should judge, would be immensely popu- 
lar among the people for whom it was written, and to whose sectional pride 
and prejudices it appeals in more ways than one. In all respects it is essen- 
tially Southern, and in most it is praiseworthy. Its press-work especially 
shows a standard of excellence which we were not prepared to look for below 
Philadelphia ; and the poems themselves, if they do not quite deserve, still 
do not altogether disgrace their handsome setting. In two points particu- 
larly they challenge Southern admiration : in the first place, they are not 
absolutely trash, which is quite an advance on the majority of Southern 
verse ; and in the second place, their merit is even sufficient to dimly fore- 
shadow a time when the sunny South shall achieve intellectual emancipa- 
tion in a literature of its own, and be no longer dependent on New England 
for poetry, as well as piety, politics, and prints. To the author's own people, 
therefore, unjaded as yet by the worship of many literary idols, her book 
must be peculiarly grateful : even we of the North, who are not tainted by 
that sombre fanaticism that sees no good in Nazareth, may find in it much 



MARGARET J. PRESTON. 381 

to admire and applaud. The verse is graceful and flowing, and the language 
and sentiment prove the author to be a lady of refined and cultivated taste. 
'Dulce et decus' is rather an indecorous liberty with Horace, and we should 
greatly prefer that Miss (or Mrs. ?) Preston had not linked ' breast ' with 
' caress/ nor turned ' harassing ' and ' support ' into ' harassing ' and ' sup- 
port.' But after all, we are not so much concerned with Miss (or Mrs. ?) 
Preston's Latin and orthoepy, which might be better, as with her poetry, 
which might be decidedly worse. The story of ' Beechenbrook ' — a story 
mournfully trite to thousands of aching hearts — is simply and gracefully 
told; and some of the shorter poems interspersed — ' Only a Private ' and 
' Slain in Battle ' — are not without pathos. Of course, the war is re- 
garded from the Confederate standpoint, and equally, of course, there is 
the usual amount of Southern devotion and Southern invincibility — Miss 
(or Mrs. ?) Preston's rebels being easily victorious against anything less than 
quadruple odds, which is a rather perplexing statement, considering that 
Northern bards assure us of its exact converse. But to offset these very 
natural and not unpardonable flights of fancy, we have much less than the 
usual amount of ' vandal hordes ' and 'despot's heels' that generally tram- 
ple through and make gory the war-poetry of Dixie, just as the strains of 
the Federal minstrel are enlivened by the dismal howl of the bondman. 
The most flagrant error in this direction is a rather invidious comparison of 
the vulture and the eagle in what is one of the best poems in the book, 
' Stonewall Jackson's Grave ; ' but it is suggested only to be deprecated 
and dismissed. The stanza will bear quoting : 

' The largess of their praise is flung 

With bounty rare and regal; 
Is it because the vulture fears 

No longer the dead eagle ? 
Nay, rather far accept it thus — ■ 

An homage true and tender, 
As soldier unto soldier worth, 

As brave to brave will render/ 

" The last stanza is even better : 

' Rare fame ! rare name ! If chanted praise, 

With all the world to listen ; 
If pride that swells a nation's soul, 

If foemen's tears that glisten ; 
If pilgrim's shrining love — if grief, 

Which nought may soothe or sever; 
If these can consecrate — this spot 

Is sacred ground forever ! ' 

" The political tone, if we may so call it, of these poems, is much higher 
and healthier throughout than we could have expected, or than we were 



382 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

warranted in hoping for by any example of moderation that loyal muses 
have set. Southern women, we are told, still cherish in their hearts that 
bitterness of hatred and that stubbornness of rebellion that did so much to 
prolong the late conflict, and which their husbands and brothers, we believe, 
have more wisely and nobly dismissed; but if we interpret this volume 
rightly, if it has not been deftly doctored for the Northern market, we take 
it as a sign, that, even among the women of the South, at least the more 
cultivated portion, the right feeling, the true patriotism, is gradually re- 
asserting itself. - The concluding poem, entitled ' Acceptation/ expresses 
best the spirit which should animate the Southern people ; a spirit wherein 
a very intelligible regret for the past is tempered by submission in the pre- 
sent, and abiding hope for the future : 

' "We do accept thee, heavenly peace ! 

Albeit thou comest in a guise 

Unlooked for — undesired; our eyes 
"Welcome through tears the sweet release 
From war, and woe, and want — surcease 
For which we bless thee, blessed peace !' 

" These lines have the true ring ; and an extension of the feeling which 
prompted them will do more to hasten reconstruction than the harangues 
of a dozen Senators, and the Freedmen's Bureau to boot. The women of 
the South have done much to destroy the Union ; they can certainly do as 
much to rebuild it." 

" It is to be sincerely hoped that the war which has so severely scourged 
the South will bring some good to the country, beside the lessons of political 
economy it has impressed upon us all. It is cheering to begin to see already 
some marked signs of fruition of this hope in the matter of the literary sta- 
mina, and taste, and ambition of our people. It has always seemed to us 
that whatever of genius there is in the South, there has always been wanting 
some great necessity, some great pressure of circumstances, some great awak- 
ening cause to arouse and develop it ; and it would seem that the war, in 
its progress and final effect, is the first gleam of the dawning. It certainly 
has kindled a poetic fire that has never burned before ; and now, while the 
great avalanche of worthless rhymes which it forced out upon the seething 
surface are being sunk into their proper places in the dark waters of oblivion, 
a pearl here and an opal there are being fished out, burnished, and set 
ablazing in tissues of beautiful gold. 

" At first, some good things will be lost in the scramble with the bad ; some 
bad things will be saved in the shadow of the good. At last, all the bad will 
filter through, and most of the good, and the good only, will be saved. 

" Messrs. Kelly & Piet, of Baltimore, have executed a commendable piece 
of workmanship in bringing out, from all this rubbish, the poems of Mrs. 



MAEGAEET J. PKESTON. 383 

Preston * We like the book. It contains some elegant touches that should 
not be lost. 

" To begin with the beginning, and end with the ending, as we propose to 
do, the leading poem covers seventy-five pages, and is styled ' A Rhyme of 
the War.' An appropriate title, it is true ; but we wish it did not have this 
double name at all — we have had too much of the war. It is written in the 
anapestic measure, which is so beautifully employed in the splendid ballads 
of Scott and Macaulay, and is interspersed with several animated odes in 
the Pindaric style. The hero is a Colonel Dunbar, and the introductory 
scene portrays the parting of husband from wife and children, and the sor- 
row which overspreads his hitherto happy home, Beechenbrook Cottage, 
when war's rude alarms burst over Virginia, in 1861, on ' a day bright with 
the earliest glory of May,' and when 

' The blue of the sky is as tender a blue 
As ever the sunshine came shimmering through.' 

The wife, after she prepared the few little articles belonging to a soldier's 
wardrobe, and after he was ready to leave, 

'On the fresh, shining knapsack she pillows her head, 
And weeps as a mourner might weep for the dead. 



And the stout-hearted man is as weak as a girl.' 

And then the good wife rouses herself, and, in the very midst of her over- 
powering paroxysm of grief, throws her arms around her husband's neck, 
and leaning upon his breast, 

' She raises her eyes with a softened control, 
And through them her husband looks into her soul/ 

while she speaks, with a steady and clear voice, the sentiment of a Macedo- 
nian mother to her son, when she told him to ' Go : return with your shield, 
or on it ; ' but the griefful wife makes this uninterrupted speech, twenty-six 
lines long, hardly stopping to take breath. It is the heaviest part of the 
poem. If she had said what she did say with more brevity and more vim, 
it would have been better. It is a good scene, too much drawn out. 

" Beechenbrook Cottage is situate within hearing of the booming of the 
guns in the battle of Manassas. Mother, daughter, and little son seek a 
green hillock, and pause to listen : 

'Again and again the reverberant sound 
Is fearfully felt in the tremulous ground ; 
Again and again on their senses it thrills, 
Like thunderous echoes astray in the hills.' 

That is certainly very fine. 

* Mrs. Preston is a sister-in-law of Stonewall Jackson. 



384 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 
" Again : 

* On tiptoe — the summer wind lifting his hair, 
With nostrils expanded, and scenting the air, 
Like a mettled young war-horse that tosses his mane, 
And frettingly champs at the bit and the rein, 
Stands eager, exultant — ' 



"What? who? 



' — a twelve year old boy, 
His face all aflame with a rapturous joy.' 



It is really to be regretted that the author should have attempted to fill 
such a magnificent background for a superb picture with ' a twelve year old 
boy. 1 

"Many and many an eye that peruses this paper will recognize a scene por- 
trayed in Mrs. Dunbar's letter to her husband. It is not hard to find the 
beauty in these lines : whether it is hard or not to find any truth — and how 
much of truth — in them we leave the reader to determine. Here is what 
she writes to him : 

' Our beautiful home — as I write it, I weep — 
Our beautiful home is a smouldering heap ! 
And blackened and blasted, and grim and forlorn, 
Its chimneys stand stark in the mists of the morn ! 

'I stood, in my womanly helplessness, weak, 
Though I felt a brave color was kindling my cheek, 
And I plead by the sacredest things of their lives — 
By the love that they bore to their children — their wives — 
By the homes left behind them, whose joys they had shared — 
By the God that should judge them — that mine should be spared. 

' As well might I plead with the whirlwind to stay, 
As it crashingly cuts through the forest its way ! 
I know that my eye flashed a passionate ire, 
As they scornfully flung me their answer of — fire!' 

" The hero of the rhyme is once wounded ere he receives the fatal shot that 
deprived his cause of his gallant services, and his bereaved widow and 
orphans of their husband and father. The allusions to the fields which were 
fought in the Old Dominion are but incidental, and perhaps, on this account, 
are more interesting and artistic. 

" The poem is a very fair reflection of the feelings of our people, both men 
and women, during the progress of the war, telling how the women urged 
the men forward to the front, and wrote them kind letters, burning with 
patriotic zeal — how the men marched through snows and ice without shoes, 



MARGARET J. PRESTON. 385 

and fought battle after battle, with never enough to eat — how the mothers, 
wives, sisters, and sweethearts toiled day in and day out for the soldiers, the 
sick and the wounded, their hearts writhing the while with a terrible doubt- 
ing, hoping, fearing. 

" The last two stanzas of this poem are full of vigor and earnestness — a fire 
that will kindle life enough, even where the process of freezing has been 
quite completed, to make one appreciate the lines on page 42 : 

1 The crash of the onset — the plunge and the roll 
Reach down to the depths of each patriot soul; 
It quivers — for since it is human, it must,' etc. 

"Besides ' Beechenbrook,' this volume contains 'Virginia,' a sonnet; 
' Jackson,' a sonnet ; ' Dirge for Ashby,' ' Stonewall Jackson's Grave,' ' When 
the War is over/ and ' Virginia Capta.' 

" There have been but few poems produced by the war so exquisite and 
thrilling as the ' Dirge for Ashby ; ' perhaps it has not its equal, if Ave 
except Harry Flash's ' Zollicoffer.' 

" We cannot resist the temptation to quote a stanza or two from ' Virginia 
Capta ; ' they have so much of sublime submission — the conquered to the 
conqueror — in them : 

' The arm that wore the shield, strip bare ; 
The hand that held the martial rein, 
And hurled the spear on many a plain — 
Stretch — till they clasp the shackles there i 



Bend though thou must beneath his will, 
Let not one abject moan have place; 
But with majestic, silent grace, 

Maintain thy regal bearing still. 

; Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mien, 
Thy blasted hopes — thy peace undone 
Yet brave live on, nor seek to shun 
Thy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen. 



' Though forced a captive's place to fill 
In the triumphal train, yet there, 
Superbly, like Zenobia, wear 
Thy chains — Virginia Victrix still! 



> » 



Wm. Hand Browne thus criticizes Mrs. Preston : 

" To pronounce her the first female poet of the South would be arrogating 
too much to our own judgment ; but we know of none we could place before 
her. The critical reader of Mrs. Preston's poems is first struck by the dig- 
nity of the thoughts and the simplicity of" the style. She never writes 
49 



386 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

without a worthy theme, nor handles any theme slightly and carelessly. 
The poet's art with her is not a mere elegant accomplishment, or a convenient 
outlet for a lively fancy, but a noble art, which none have a right to essay but 
those who know that they have received the divine gift of poesy, and feel 
that they are answerable for its worthy use. Hence in her poetry, while 
we may have our preferences, there is nothing that we could wish away — 
nothing that is discordant with the rest, or that does not justify its poetic 
treatment. At the same time she rarely, if ever, soars into the higher 
regions of the imagination ; her poems have all a direct human interest, and 
are treated with a firm, what we may call a conscientious, realism. In many 
of her pieces there is a noble pathos and a grand tenderness, only surpassed 
by the greatest masters of emotion. 

"Her style is chastened almost to severity, every word being weighed and 
chosen for its place ; giving a sharp distinctness to her thought, which is 
the very opposite of the vague, nebulistic, epithetic style of too many of her 
contemporaries, who seem aiming at they know not precisely what; like 
Orbaneja, the painter of Ubeda, of whom it is recorded that when asked 
what he was painting, he used to answer, ' Whatever it turns out.' In a 
word, we find in Mrs. Preston, if not the most splendid, a pure and noble 
imagination, combined with and ruled by a clear judgment and refined taste ; 
quick sympathies for all that is good and lovely ; deep, but unobtrusive 
piety, and an admirable gift of expression — qualities, when united, sufficient 
to form a poet of whom we may well be proud, and whose works will be read 
with perpetual pleasure by all lovers of true poetry." 



NON DOLET. 

A SONNET. 



When doubt, defeat, and dangers sore beset 
The Roman Arria, yielding to the tide 
Of ills that overwhelmed on every side, 

With unheroic heart, that could forget 

'T was cowardice to die, she dared and met 
The easier fate ; and luring, sought to hide 

(For her beloved's sake — true woman yet!) 
The inward anguish, with a wifely pride. 

Not so our Southern Arria ! In the face 

Of deadlier woes, she dared to live, and wring 
Hope out of havoc ; till the brave control, 

Pathetic courage, and most tender grace 

Of her "Non doleV nerved her husband's soul, 
Won him to life, and dulled even failure's sting ! 



MARGAKET J. PEESTON. 387 



UNDERTOW. 



It is a gift for which to render praise, 

Ceaseless and fervent, that our troubled hearts 

Can hide the harrowing grief that chafes and smarts, 

And shut themselves from all intrusive gaze. 
Oft when the murmur of the world grows low, 

And the felt silence broods serene and still, 
The inward ear is listening to the flow 

Of eddying memories, that flood and fill 
The soul with tumult. Then how blest to wear, 

In eyes that yield no sympathizing look, 
A face of tidal quiet, that shall bear 

No hint of undercurrents ! Who could brook 
That even our nearest, dearest, best should know 
The secret springs of many an hour of woe ? 



ACCEPTATION. 

We do accept thee, heavenly Peace ! 
Albeit thou comest in a guise 
Unlooked for — undesired ; our eyes 
Welcome through tears the kind release 
From war, and woe, and want — surcease 
For which we bless thee, holy Peace ! 

We lift our foreheads from the dust; 
And as we meet thy brow's clear calm, 
There falls a freshening sense of balm 

Upon oiy spirits. Fear — distrust — 

The hopeless present on us thrust — 

We'll front them as we can, and must. 

War has not wholly wrecked us ; still 
Strong hands, grand hearts, stern souls are ours 
Proud consciousness of quenchless powers — 

A past whose memory makes us thrill — 

Futures uncharactered, to fill 

With heroisms, if we will I 



388 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Then courage, brothers ! Though our breast 

Ache with that rankling thorn, despair, 

That failure plants so sharply there — 
No pang, no pain shall be confessed : 
We'll work and watch the brightening west, 
And leave to God and heaven the rest! 



THE LADY HILDEGAKDE'S WEDDING. 

" I dare not doubt his word," she said, 
With steadfast voice and clear; 

"For sure as knight did ever plight 
True faith, he will be here. 

"He sware it on this crested ring, 
That by our Lord's dear leave, 
He'd wed me here at Lyndismere, 
This blessed Christmas Eve." 

— Sir Walter dallied with his blade, 
And his steel eyne grew wroth: 
"Nay, sweetheart, see ! — it cannot be : 
Thy knight hath broke his troth." 

Out spake the Lady Hildegarde, 
With grieved, reproachful air : 
"None other may such slander say, — 
My father only dare! 

"My bower-maids all await my call, 
My bridesmen will be here; 
And merry throngs with wedding songs 
Shall bide at Lyndismere." 

"Now out upon thee, — simple lass!" 

With heat Sir Walter cried; 
" To-morrow e'en, with seas between, 

How can'st thou be a bride? 



MAEGAEET J. PRESTON. 389 

"The Nether-land is far o'erseas, 
And angry storms may roar; 
Or war may send (which Heaven forfend!) 
Tidings to vex thee sore. 

"Forbear, until the galliot drop 
Anchor at Maiden-head, 
To fix the day, and yea or. nay, 
Proclaim thou wilt be wed. 

"Let the old Hall ring loud and high 
With roistering Twelfth Night cheer; 
Bring holly-glow and mistletoe 
To garland Lyndismere. 

"Let frolic mummers don their masks, 
Let morris-dancers come 
And reel and sing in jocund ring, 
With rebeck, pipe, and drum. 

"Of capons, boar's-head, nut-brown ale, 

Let liberal store be shown; 
• And wassail-shout shall make the bout 

The merriest ever known. 

"The jesters with their bells shall plot 
All mirth-provoking pranks: 
So . . . let me sue ; — forget Sir Hugh, 
And take thy father's thanks!" 

She heard, the Lady Hildegarde, 

With firm, unflinching eye ; 
Then forth she stepped, and onward swept, 

Disdainful of reply. 

— The snows lay deep round Lyndismere, 

But generous fires blazed free, 
And casements clear flashed far and near 

Their gleams across the lea. 

Retainers filled the ancient Hall, 

Guests thronged as fell the night, 
And rare to see, right gorgeously, 

The chapel streamed with light. 



390 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

"Be brave Sir Hugh come back?" they asked 

The gray-haired seneschal: 
"Not yet?" — " 'Twas said to-night he'd wed 

Our Lady of the Hall." 

Sir Walter chafed and strode apart; 

The cassock' d priest was seen; 
And maidens fair came pair by pair . . . 
m "What could the folly mean?" 

A sudden vision hushed the mirth, — 

Sir Walter's breath came hard; 
For last of all adown the Hall 

Swept Lady Hildegarde. 

"Saint Agnes! — but she's comely!" quoth 

The parti-color'd. clown; 
"And by the rood! in bridal hood 

And bridal veil and gown! 

"Sir Hugh should e'en be here to mark 
The orange posies bloom; 
Will proxy due for stout Sir Hugh? 
Then i" would fain be groom ! " 

Straight onward to the chancel-rails 

The snooded maidens passed; 
When suddenly the companie 

Was startled by a blast, — 

A blast that echoed loud and shrill 

Without the castle gate, 
As though the train that passed amain 

Was sorely loth to wait. 

Unmoved stood Lady Hildegarde, 

Nor seemed to hear nor feel, 
Till up the floor, one moment more, 

There tramped a clanking heel. 

" Beloved/" — With one bound they met! 
Then, dashing off a tear, 
She turned and said, with lifted head, — 
''Father, — Sir Hugh is here!" 



MRS. S. A. WEISS. 

SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY is descended, on the paternal side, 
from a Huguenot refugee, who settled in Hanover County, Vir- 
ginia. In an old homestead on an estate in this county the subject 
of this article was born, and passed the years of childhood. 

We are indebted to " Mary Forrest's " volume, " Women of the 
South," for the following : 

" Among the traits earliest developed in Miss Talley were extreme fear- 
lessness and love of liberty 

" It is said that she was never known to betray a sign of fear ; and at the 
age of five years, in her visits to the neighbors, she would unhesitatingly 
face and subdue by her caresses the fiercest dogs, which even grown persons 
dared not approach. A singular power of will and magnetism, like that 
ascribed to the author of ' Wuthering Heights,' seems to have possessed 
her. She rode with a graceful, fearless abandon, and loved nothing better 
than to float away by herself in a frail boat. She was the frequent com- 
panion of her father and grandfather in their walks, rides, and hunting and 
fishing excursions ; yet with all these influences, she was ever a gentle child, 
and remarkable for extreme sensibility and refinement. She delighted in 
all sights and sounds of beauty, and would sit for hours watching the sky in 
storm and sunshine, or listening to the wind among the trees, the plashing 
of a waterfall, or the cry of a whip-poor-will. This life familiarized her 
with all the voices of nature. A sound once heard she never forgot, but 
could, years after, imitate with surprising exactness. 

" When she was eight years of age, her father removed to Richmond, and 

she then entered school When in her eleventh year, she was 

released from the thraldom of the school-room by an unexpected dispensa- 
tion. It had been remarked that for some days she had appeared singularly 
absent and inattentive when spoken to ; being at length reproved, she burst 
into tears, exclaiming, ' I can't hear you.' It was then discovered that her 
hearing was greatly impaired. She was placed under the care of the most 
eminent physicians of the country ; but their varied efforts resulted, as is too 
often the case, only in an aggravation of the evil. She lost the power to 
distinguish conversation, though carried on in a loud key ; a power which 
she has not wholly recovered 

" Her parents were at first greatly at loss as to the manner of conducting 

391 



392 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

her education. Fortunately, she was advanced far beyond most children of 
her age; and now, released from the discipline of school, her natural love of 
study deepened into a passion. It was soon found sufficient to throw suit- 
able books in her way, and thus, unassisted, she completed a thorough scho- 
lastic course. She also acquired an extensive acquaintance with the lite- 
rature of the day, and her correct taste and critical discrimination elicited 
the warmest encomiums from that prince of critics, Edgar A. Poe. 

" It was not until Miss Talley had entered her thirteenth year that her 
poetic faculty became apparent to her family ; she having, through modesty, 
carefully concealed all proofs of its development. Some specimens of her 
verse then falling under the eye of her father, he at once recognized in them 
the flow of true genius, and very wisely, with a few encouraging words, left 
her to the guidance of her own inspiration. In her sixteenth year, some of 
her poems appeared in the ' Southern Literary Messenger.' " 

In September, 1859, a collection of her poems was issued by Rudd 
& Carleton, of New York. This volume secured for her a distinction 
of which she may well be proud. For rhythmic melody, for sustained 
imagination, for depth of feeling, and purity and elevation of senti- 
ment, these poems are equalled by few, and surpassed by none of the 
productions of our poets. They are rich also in those qualities of 
mind and heart, which, apart from any literary prestige, win for Miss 
Talley the esteem and affection of all who are admitted within the 
choice circle of her friendship. 

Miss Talley was imprisoned at Fort McHenry during the war, on 
the charge of being a spy — refusing to take the oath of allegiance to 
the United States Government. It was while imprisoned at Fort 
McHenry that Miss Talley was married to Lieut. Weiss, of the 
Federal army. 

It was upon her return to Richmond, after her imprisonment, that 
she commenced writing for the "Magnolia Weekly" and the "South- 
ern Illustrated News." Up to the time of her commencing to write 
for the two named journals, she had never been able to write, satisfac- 
torily, a line of prose. Poetry had been to her as the breath of life; 
and her poems had occurred to her almost as inspirations, conceived 
and written out on a moment's impulse, without labor or difficulty 
whatever, and in several cases (as, for instance, in the case of " Summer 
Noonday Dreams,") without a word being altered. Then, about three 
years before the war, this power seemed to desert her entirely ; and in 
this interval she wrote nothing. It returned as suddenly upon the 
inspiration of the war; but again as suddenly departed. For over 



s. a. weiss. 393 

three years she has not written a line of poetry ; but, strangely 
enough, prose now flows readily, and almost without the labor of 
thinking, from her pen. Providence seems thus to have provided for 
Mrs. Weiss at the very moment when she needed this capacity as a 
sole means of support. 

Mrs. Weiss is, and has been for several years, a regular contributor 
to the New York "Sunday Times." 

1869. C. D. 



THE BATTLE EVE. 

I see the broad, red, setting sun 

Sink slowly down the sky ; 
I see, amid the cloud-built tents, 

His blood-red standard fly; 
And mournfully the pallid moon 

Looks from her place on high. 

O setting sun, awhile delay; 

Linger on sea and shore; 
For thousand eyes now gaze on thee, 

That shall not see thee more; 
A thousand hearts beat proudly now, 

Whose race, like thine, is o'er ! 

ghastly moon, thy pallid ray 

On paler brows shall lie, 
On many a torn and bleeding breast, 

On many a glazing eye ; 
And breaking hearts shall live to mourn, 

For whom 't were bliss to die. 



60 



394 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



CON ELGIN. 

Con Elgin was a horseman bold, 

A chief of high degree, 
And he hath gone with twenty men 

A-sailing on the sea; 
Now woe the hour and woe the strand 
When Elgin with his men shall land, 

Wherever that may be. 

Con Elgin sought the stormy isle 

Across the foaming flood, 
And he hath marched with all his men 

Into the Druid wood, 
Where dark beneath the ancient oaks 

The Christian temple stood. 

Con Elgin slew the old Culdee — 

The priest with silver hair; 
He slew him at the altar-stone 

In sacerdotal gear ; 
He slew the half-baptized babe, 

And its mother, young and fair. 

He seized the sacramental cup 

The blessed wine to drain; 
He mixed it with the Christian's blood 

And quaffed it yet again ; 
Then, while his eyes in fury roll, 
His beard he cleanses in the bowl — 
But there is on his blackened soul 

An everlasting stain. 

Con Elgin lies in troubled sleep 

Beneath a Druid oak : 
Was it the whisper of the wind, 

Or a voice to him that spoke? 
; Oh, hard of heart and fierce of hand 

I sign thee with a sign : 
Where'er thou goest, on land or flood, 
O'er icy plain, through dusky wood, 

Shall loneliness be thine ! " 



s. a. weiss. 395 

Uprose the bloody horseman then, 

And loudly laughed he : 
C I bear the spell and wear the sign, 

Thou old and weird Culdee! 
Now by the shades of Odin's hall, 
That such an ill should me befall, 

That such a curse should be!" 

And loudly laughed his followers 

As round about they stood : 
But a sudden thrill and a whisper ran 

Through the ancient Druid wood; 
And trembled all the Valkyrmen 

As round about they stood. 

And now they are upon the sea, 

And far and fast they go; 
For lo ! the storm is on their track — 
The waves are white — the clouds are black, 

And the icy breezes blow. 
Oh, that the storm would wear away, 

And the winds would cease to blow! 

Yet darker grows the fearful night, 

And loud the tempest's shriek; 
They cannot see each other's forms, 

Or hear each other speak: 
But though the waves the wilder grow, 
And though the winds the fiercer blow, 
With stately mast and steady prow 

The vessel onward rides: 
They know that some unearthly hand 

The broken rudder guides. 

A sudden lull — and in the south 

There dawns a misty day; 
There is no cloud, there is no breeze, 
But far away o'er frozen seas 

The Borealis' play — 
A ghastly light, like that which lies 
Within the dying's glazing eyes. 

There is no life in all the scene, 
There is no breath — no sound ; 



396 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

But slowly o'er the glassy deep 
The icy bars in silence creep, 

And clasp the ship around, 
Till mast and sail and deck alike 

In icy chains are bound. 

Gloom on the vast, unbroken sky, 

And stillness on the air, 
And loneliness upon the sea, 

And silence everywhere; 
And in Con Elgin's hardened heart 

A stern and cold despair. 

He shrank to see the famished crew, 

So gaunt were they and grim; 
He gazed where, sea and sky between, 
In lurid haze was ever seen 

The sun's unsetting rim; 
But evermore those stony eyes 

Glared fixedly on him. 

He spake to them — he called to them — 

Then came a silence dread; 
For lo, upon the northern skies 
Strange gleams of lurid light arise, 

And gather overhead; 
They gleam upon the frozen ship, 

And on the frozen dead. 

The faces of the dead were they, 

So rigid, wan, and blue; 
Oh, 'twas a fearful thing to stand 

Amid that lifeless crew ! 
And thrice Con Elgin drew his blade, 
And thrice his iron hand was stayed : 

Ah, well the grasp he knew ! 

He paces on the icy deck, 

He chants a mystic rune; 
He cursed the long and weary day, - 

Yet ended all too soon, 
As the lurid disk of the blood-red sun 

Sinks suddenly at noon. 



S. A. WEISS. 397 

The ghastly dead — the ghastly dead — 

They chill him with their eyes ; 
The silent ship — the lonely sea — ■ 

The far and boundless skies! 
Oh, that some little breeze would stir, 

Some little cloud arise! 

And then uprose a little cloud — 

Uprose a little breeze — 
And came a low and slumberous sound, 
Like moaning waves that break around 

The stormy Hebrides : 
The ice is rent — the ship is free, 

And on the open seas! 

He saw the land upon his lee — 

He strove the shore to gain; 
And wild and fierce his eiforts grew, 

But strength and skill were vain ; 
Still onward ploughed the fated ship 

Unto the outer main. 

A sail, a sail! "What ho! what ho!" 

He shouted from the mast; 
And back there came a cheering cry 

Upon the rushing blast: 
Their very life-blood chilled with dread — 
They saw the living and the dead 

As swift they hurried past ! 

And long upon those Northern seas, 

At silent dead of night, 
A cry would echo on the blast, 
And a phantom ship go hurrying past — 

A strange and fearful sight! 
And well the trembling sailors knew 
Con Elgin and his ghastly crew. 






MRS. CONSTANCE CARY HARRISON. 

THE subject of this short sketch, whose maiden name was Constance 
Cary, and who is best known to Southern literature under her 
nom de 'plume of " Refugitta," is the daughter of the late Archibald 
Cary and of Monimia Fairfax, his wife, both representatives of 
ancient families of Virginia. Mrs. Harrison is the elder of two chil- 
dren, and was born, we believe, in Mississippi, to which State her 
father had removed, shortly after his marriage, for the purpose of 
practising his profession, the law. Mr. Cary was a gentleman of fine 
literary abilities, and during his residence in Mississippi was associated 
in the editorship of a newspaper at Port Gibson, the place of hi3 resi- 
dence. Mr. Cary subsequently removed to Cumberland, Maryland, 
where he became proprietor and editor of the " Cumberland Civilian," 
which journal he edited up to the time of his death. 

At the breaking out of the war, Miss Cary was residing with her 
mother at " Vancluse," about three miles from Alexandria, Virginia, 
for many years the country-seat of the Fairfax family, and the former 
home of her maternal grandfather, Thomas Fairfax. Like many 
others, overtaken by the coming of war, Miss Cary became a "refugee," 
a term understood with a mournful distinctness by thousands of the best 
and noblest of the South, and sought shelter, accompanied by her mother, 
in Richmond, in which city she remained until the close of the war. 

It was in Richmond that Miss Cary first wrote under the name of 
"Refugitta." From both father and mother she had inherited a 
decided literary taste and aptitude ; and hence the lively, sparkling 
sketches which appeared under that name in the literary papers of the 
Confederate capital, displayed a more than usual vigor, and their 
vivacity of style earned for their fair author no little reputation and 
applause. Among the writers of the four years of warfare that befell 
the South, none was more popular than " Refugitta," especially in 
Richmond, where were published most of her writings. 

In the autumn of 1865, Miss Cary went to Europe with her mother, 
remaining there about a year. Some time after her return to the 
United States, she was married to Mr. Burton N. Harrison, who, 
during the war, was attached to the person of Mr. Jefferson Davis in 
the capacity of private secretary. Mr. and Mrs. Harrison at present 
reside in New York. ■ 

1870. C. D. 

398 



I 



M. J. HAW. 

N the fall of 1863, the " Southern Illustrated News," published in 
Richmond, had the following announcement : 



"AN ILLUSTRATED ROMANCE! 
"Prize of One Thousand Dollars! 
" Haying engaged the services of a corps of competent engravers, who are 
confidently expected to arrive in the Confederacy in. a few weeks, the pro- 
prietors of the ' Illustrated News ' will award a prize of one thousand dollars 
to the author of the best illustrated romance, to be submitted to them between 
the present date and the 1st of November next. 
" September 5th, 1863." 

The time was extended to the 1st. of December. 

March 1st, 1864, the " News " announced that the prize for the 
best romance had been awarded to Miss M. J. Haw, of Hanover 
County, Virginia, for her story, entitled " The Rivals : A Tale of the 
Chickahominy." 

The " committee " stated that, " in recommending the superiority 
of ' The Rivals,' they base their preference upon the fact that to its 
other excellences is added that of unity. The story itself is written 
with a pleasing simplicity of style and a freshness of interest." 

Miss Haw had been a contributor to the " Magnolia Weekly," of 
tales, etc., signed with her initials, the only objection to which were 
the sombre backgrounds. " The Beech wood Tragedy " was the title 
of the first story we ever read from " M. J. H.'s " pen. The prize 
romance was her most ambitious and most successful effort. 

Miss Haw had the misfortune to reside during the war "in the 
midst of battle-fields," and suffered from marauders and so-called 
scouting parties. The close of the war found her " moneyless," and 
since that time she has written for the "Christian Observer," and 
other Southern journals and magazines. Her post-office address is 
Old Church, Va. 

1868. 

399 



MES. MAEY WILEY, 

(" Margaret Stilling.") 

ft 

ANOM DE PLUME, in my opinion, should express character. 
Now, the best that I have seen in the South is that one of ' Mar- 
garet Stilling.' It attracted my attention at once." "Margaret Stil- 
ling " (the nom de plume of Miss Mary Evans) is a native and resident 
of Amelia County, Virginia. Her father, Dr. M. H. Evans, was a 
physician of some eminence in his profession. Her mother, who contri- 
buted poems to the "Southern Literary Messenger," many years ago, 
and published a volume of poems at Philadelphia in 1851, was of 
Northern birth — a Miss Stockton, related, I believe, to the celebrated 
Commodore Stockton. 

The subject of this sketch was educated at the North, and is an 
elegant, accomplished woman, of high intellectual and musical cul- 
ture, and a brilliant conversationist. 

During the war, Miss Evans was a teacher, yet found time to cul- 
tivate the muses, to the pleasure of the "blockaded" Southrons, 
contributing her productions in prose and verse to the "Confederate" 
literary journals. Since the war, she has become Mrs. William Wiley, 
and only occasionally does she publish. 



A BUNCH OF FLOWERS. 

Across the leaves bright sunshine fell, 

Touching their green with gold, 
And tingeing, as some lustrous shell, 

Each rosebud's crimson fold 

A dewy network's pearly bands 
Set, diamond-like, with light, 
Stretched o'er each flower its gleaming strands, 
With moonlight radiance bright. 
400 



M. E. HEAT H. 401 

While many a tiny, trembling spray," 

Some liquid star-drop brushing, 
Would flash from thence one silver ray, 

And show a rosebud's blushing. 

With mute delight I gazed on all, 

Some charm my spirit thrilling, 
Hearing His voice through nature call, 

Each mystic yearning stilling. 

Then 'gainst the wall the shadow fell, 

An outline dim and strange, 
As if the colors, limned so well, 

Had known some wondrous change. 

'T is thus, O heaven, thy glories bright, 

Fairer than star-gemmed skies, 
Fall, shadowed with uncertain light, 

Before our sin-stained eyes. 



>>@4c 



MISS M. E. HEATH. 

nHHE nom de plume of "Nettie Neale" was favorably known to the 
JL readers of the "Field and Fireside," a weekly literary journal 
published at Ftaleigh, N. C. A novelette, entitled " Eoland," which 
ran through a dozen issues of that journal, was favorably received. 

Maggie E. Heath is a native of Petersburg, Va. She contributed 
to the Richmond "Christian Advocate" and "Home Circle" (Nash- 
ville), under the pseudonym of " Miriam," both prose and verse. 

Miss Heath resides at Oakland. Her post-office address is Dispu- 
tanta, Va. She has ready for publication a volume entitled "Under 
the Oaks." 

1868. 

51 



MISS VIRGINIA E. DAVIDSON. 

THE subject of this notice has always been an invalid. Says she, 
in an elegant letter to the writer : " On this account I have had 
the misfortune to be uneducated, except so far as a fine private library 
and an extraordinarily intelligent father's conversation and explana- 
tions could supply the painful deficiency." 

She is the daughter of Colonel James Davidson, who was well known 
in Petersburg, Virginia, (the home of Miss Davidson,) as a man of 
remarkably varied information upon all subjects and sciences, and who 
occasionally wrote verses. On her mother's side she is, by affinity, con- 
nected with the Harrisons, of James River ; and the Claibornes, Maurys, 
and Fontaines, of this State. Her brother, W. F. Davidson, was an 
officer in the United States Navy, and was considered one of the finest 
mathematicians in that highly educated branch of the service : he 
also wrote poetry ; and a sister has also evinced the same talent. 

To best illustrate a determined spirit, and showing what can be 
done when one places their might at the wheel, we would mention 
that, at the age of sixteen, to use her own words, " I was so illiterate, 
I did not know or even understand the commonest branches of educa- 
tion, until one night a friend, younger than I, came to spend the even- 
ing. She contended with my father about a difference of opinion of 
Hector, and then of Ajax, Theseus, and Marc Antony. I sat fearful, 
lest they should call upon me as umpire ; for I was entirely ignorant 
of these heroes. Fortunately, the conversation turned upon the beau- 
ties of poetry: upon this subject I knew a little, and gladly did I avail 
myself of my superficial knowledge. Ignorance was abashed, and I 
at once commenced, without consultation with any one, a three-hours' 
task of ancient history and mythological reading, until history became 
a mania and an idol. This was the commencement of my education." 

At the close of the war, Miss Davidson was no better off than the 
majority of her Southern sisters. " Necessity is the mother of inven- 
tion, and poverty is the fruitful mother of energies," and at once in 
402 



J. W. McGUIRE. 403 

Miss Davidson brain and will and determination awoke, and she 
wove the incidents detailed to her during social hours of pleasant asso- 
ciation during the war into book-form, under the title of " Bloody- 
Footprints." Some of the incidents of this volume were published in 
the "Southern Opinion," Richmond, under the name of "Virginia." 
Miss Davidson has also written a novel, entitled " Philanthropist," 
and one which she has called "Principle and Policy." The last 
named is now in the hands of publishers in New York. 

1868. 



MRS. J. W. McGUIRE. 

DIARY OF A SOUTHERN REFUGEE DURING THE AVAR; 
by a lady of Virginia. New York. 1867. 

The above is the title of Mrs. McGuire's only book. This work was 
not written with the intention of publication. It is a diary, written 
between the 4th of May, 1861, and the 4th of May, 1865,— while Mrs. 
McGuire was a "refugee" from her home, — for the benefit of the 
younger members of her family, who would naturally desire to know 
something of the inner life of their relatives during the terrible years 
indicated. 

Mrs. McGuire's maiden name was Brockenborough. Her father 
was Judge of the Court of Appeals of Virginia. Richmond was the 
place of her nativity and early years. 

After becoming the wife of Rev. John P. McGuire, an Episcopal 
clergyman, she lived for many years in the county of Essex. Her 
husband became rector of the Episcopal High School, near Alexan- 
dria, Va., where they lived until they became "refugees," as set forth 
in the "Diary." After the war, they moved into the village of Tap- 
pah annock, where Mrs. McGuire has ever since been the principal 
of a female school. 
1871. 



MISS SALLIE A. BROCK 

IS the author of " Richmond During the War : Four Years of Per- 
sonal Observation," a work which, had she written nothing else, 
would deservably give her a prominent place among the first female 
writers of the country. A reviewer in a Northern journal says: 

" It is characterized by a purity of style and thought, a delicacy of senti- 
ment, and an earnestness of conviction that are too rarely found in the pub- 
lications of the day. The hopes and fears, the resolution and self-sacrifice, 
the sufferings and privations, the heroism and courage displayed by the 
Southern people, are described with all the warm affection and loving rever- 
ence of a true woman's heart — a heart whose every throb beat in sympathy 
with the cause of the South. The generous and noble impulses by which, 
in common with tens of thousands of her Southern sisters, the fair authoress 
was actuated, are manifested in the general style and character of the sub- 
jects treated. She brings to her task a mind fully stored with the most 
minute information on the principles in controversy. She is thoroughly 
conversant with the causes that led to the conflict, and this knowledge is 
employed with admirable judgment during the progress of the work for the 
enlightenment of the reader. The style is peculiarly pleasing, and the lite- 
rary character of the book is of the highest order. Full of incident, and of 
stirring, striking, and often thrilling scenes, the interest of the work never 
flags. All the joyousness of victory and the gloom of defeat, all the glory 
and all the horrors of war, are depicted with a lifelike vividness ; and the 
leading characters that appear upon the stage are painted with the fidelity 
of truth itself. The title of the volume would convey the impression that 
the scope is limited to Richmond ; but this is not so, for the fair authoress 
takes in the whole range of the Confederacy, and describes the influence of 
this or that event as affecting the general progress of the contest. There are 
no less than seventy-six chapters in the book, a fact which will serve to 
convey some idea of its varied interest. The first opens with the secession 
of Virginia ; and the last, entitled " Life in the Old Land Yet," breathes 
forth words of hope and encouragement, giving a glowing picture of the 
future of the South, rousing the faint-hearted, and inspiring the despondent 
with new life and courage. We heartily commend ' Richmond During the 
War ' as one of the most interesting, valuable, and best written volumes that 
has appeared since the close of the great struggle." 
404 



SALLIE A. BROCK. 405 

Sallie A. Brock is a native of Madison Court House, Virginia, an 
obscure little hamlet among the hills of Piedmont, and overhung by 
jutting spurs of the Blue Ridge. This little village is distinguished 
for the wild and romantic character of the surrounding scenery, and 
the fair intelligence and high moral standard of its inhabitants ; and 
Miss Brock's attachment to her birthplace is shown in the pseudonym 
for her literary efforts, " Virginia Madison." And this very appro- 
priate nom de plume calls particular attention to the many inappro- 
priate ones; and it is a cause for conjecture why so many elegant 
writers show such questionable taste in their pseudonyms. 

Miss Brock, on her father's side, is of Welsh descent. In England, 
the Brocks were staunch Royalists; and one of the name sealed his 
devotion to his country and his crown by his blood, upon the Heights 
of Queenstown, in Canada. 

Her mother, whose maiden name was Buckner, was a descendant, 
from her father, of the Beverlys and the Chews ; and from her mother, 
of the Burtons, the Heads, and the Marshalls, all names inseparably 
connected with the colonial and revolutionary history of Virginia. 

Miss Brock's childhood was passed in her native village, under the 
tutelage of her father exclusively ; and later, under tutors and gov- 
ernesses. She is ignorant of what is usually called " boarding-school 
experience." 

In her childhood, she was fond of study, and devoted to sesthetical 
pursuits, whether growing out of nature or of art, in the circumscribed 
sphere of her acquaintance, and was possessed of a passionate fondness 
for military display, in which her taste was fully gratified during the 
late war. 

In the fall of 1850, Mr. Brock removed to the University of Vir- 
ginia, where his daughter spent the following eight years of her life. 
There her sphere for improvement was sensibly enlarged, and she 
enjoyed the advantages of society as moral, refined, highly cultivated, 
and intellectual as can be found in the country. Her fondness for 
books grew upon her ; in the course of time, she devoted herself to 
studying oil-painting, and then she indulged the dream of author- 
ship. 

In the winter of 1858, the Brock family removed to Richmond, and 
were living in that city when the news from Sumter announced the 
breaking out of hostilities. Miss Brock's course of life from that time 
was changed. Dreams of distinction were hushed before the stern do- 



406 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS Of THE SOUTH. 

mands of duty. There was much for her to do, in common with all 
of her Southern sisters. She sewed and knitted, and nursed and 
cooked, and watched and prayed, during the four years of -the war, 
in service for the South and her soldiers ; while the delicate health of 
her mother, and the frequent and necessary absences from home of her 
father and younger brother, threw upon her the cares of the family. 
They were severe and onerous, and she bore them with fortitude, feeble 
enough as she watched her mother's decline to the grave. This was 
her first personal sorrow ; and the only drop of consolation she tastes 
is in the remembrance that she has been rescued from the great national 
sorrow, which, like the raven, " never flitting, still is sitting, still is 
sitting," brooding over the wreck of the buried hopes of a nation. A 
total change in circumstances and family changes have drifted Miss 
Brock away from home and friends ; and she is now residing in the 
city of New York, which is the "literary emporium " of the country, 
where authors much do congregate. 

"Virginia Madison's" muse is a busy one, and is becoming to be 
appreciated by the reading world. Writing gives Miss Brock intense 
pleasure, and her writings give her readers no less delight. 

Her second volume, a collection of poems from Southern poets, is 
entitled "The Southern Amaranth," published for the benefit of the 
"Ladies' Memorial Association," (1869.) This volume contains 
many poems furnished expressly for this work by the authors ; also, 
many beautiful poems from the muse of the gifted editress. Miss 
Brock's talents are of a versatile order, excelling in fiction, in poetry, 
and in what a woman seldom does well, political topics, which she dis- 
cusses and argues knowingly and eloquently. She has established a rep- 
utation as a writer, of which she may well be proud, and which must 
increase with time: thus considered, her first volume may be looked 
upon as a bud which must be followed by many magnificent blossoms, 
which we firmly hope may be fadeless. 

In 1869-70 Miss Brock travelled in Europe, and her letters were 
very extensively published. She has several novels in MSS. and a 
large and valuable work on the "American Poets and their Favorite 
Toems," will be published shortly. 
April, 1871. 



SALL1E A. BEOCK. 407 



WHAT IS LIFE? 

" What is Life? " I asked of a wanton child, 
As he chased a butterfly ; 
And his laugh gushed out all joyous and wild, 
As the insect flitted by. 
" What is Life ? " I asked ; " oh, tell me, I pray ! " 
His echoes rang merrily, " Life is Play ! " 

" What is Life ? " I asked of the maiden fair, 
And I watched her glowing cheek 
As the blushes deepened and softened there, 
And the dimples played " hide and seek." 
" What is Life ? Can you tell me its fullest measure ? " 
She smilingly answered, " Life is Pleasure ! " 

" What is Life ? " I asked of a soldier brave, 
As he grasped the hilt of his sword ; 
He planted his foot on a foeman's grave, 
And looked " creation's lord." 
" What is Life ? " I queried ; " oh, tell me its story." 
His brow grew bright as he answered, " Gloey ! " 

" What is Life?" I asked a mother proud, 

As she bent o'er her babe asleep, 
With a low, hushed tone, lest a thought aloud 

Might waken its slumber deep. 
Her smile turned grave, though wondrous in beauty, 
While she made reply, " Life — life is Duty ! " 

I turned to the father, who stood near by 

And gazed on his wife with pride ; 
Then a tear of joy shone bright in his eye 

For the treasure that lay at her side. 
I listened well for the tale that should come : 
" My life ! " he cried, " my life is Home ! " 

" What is Life? " I asked of the infidel; 
His eyes were haggard and bleared ; 
Fierce, mocking sneers from his thin lips swell, 
And his heart with vice was seared. 
"What is Life," I asked, "in its ebb and flow?" 
With an oath he muttered, " Life is Woe ! " 

" What is Life ? " I asked of the invalid wan, 
As he wheeled to the grate his chair, 



408 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

And frowned as through the casement there ran 
A fluttering breath of air. 
" What is Life ? " I asked — I asked again : 
He languidly coughed, and answered, " Pain ! " 

" What is Life? " I asked of the statesman grand, 
The idol of the hour ; 
The fate of a nation was in his hand — 

His word was the breath of power. 
He, sickening, turned from the world's caress : 
" 'T is a bubble ! " he cried — " 't is Emptiness ! " 

" What is Life? " I asked of the miser grim, 
• As he clutched his well-filled bag ; 
His features were gaunt and his figure slim, 
His garment a tattered rag. 
" What is Life ? " I asked, " the story unfold." 
" Life," he chuckled, " life is Gold ! " 

" What is Life ? " I asked of the student of books, 

Exploring a ponderous tome ; 
There are curious things in the rare old nooks 

Whence the records of science come. 
For a moment he turned from his learned perch, 
And quickly answered, " Life is Research ! " 

" What is Life ? " I asked of a Christian meek, 
As she knelt before a shrine ; 
The impress of Heaven was on ber cheek, 
In her eyes a light divine. 
" What is life? " I questioned, " oh ! trace me its path ! " 
She pointed upward, and whispered, " Faith ! " 

" What is Life ? " I asked of a man of care, 
Bending under the load of years : 
He ran' his fingers through his thin gray hair, 

And his eyelids were humid with tears. 
His voice trembled, " I once was brave ; 
Life is a shadow that points to the Grave ! " 

I turned and asked of my inner heart 

What story it could unfold ? 
It bounded quick in its pulses' start, 

As the record it unrolled. 
I read on the page, " Love, Hope, Joy, Strife ! 
What the heart would make it, such is Life ! " 



MISS SUSAN C. HOOPER 

A QUIET home-existence up to the close, or rather beginning of 
the war — for "quiet" was hardly to be found in Kichmond 
during the time the "City on the James" was capital of the Confed- 
erate States — was that of Susan C. Hooper. 

Miss Hooper's father, on the death of his wife and an infant 
daughter, which occurred shortly after the second birthday of the sub- 
ject of this article, discontinued housekeeping, and the subsequent life 
of father and daughter was spent as boarders in the b.^me of one or 
another of their kindred. Says the lady : 

" My earliest distinct recollection is of a character rather different, I opine, 
from that of most girls. I could not have numbered more than three or 
four years, at farthest, when our city had the honor of a visit from the Sage 
of Marshfield. Reared in the Slashes of Hanover, familiar with the scenes 
of Clay's early life, and bred in the same school of politics, it was always a 
marvel to me that Harry of the West was not my father's favorite leader. 
But, no ; it was Webster, from the colder latitude and granite hills of New 
England Well, my father could not permit so golden an opportunity of 
his child's seeing his political idol to pass unimproved ; so, girl, almost baby 
as I was, he hurried me down to the honorable gentleman's reception on the 
portico of the old Powhatan, then a leading hotel, held me in his arms above 
the heads of the populace, that in after years I might boast of having heard 
Webster, the immortal. My impressions of that hour were a source of infi- 
nite amusement to my father to the day of his death. Mr. Webster was 
welcomed by James Lyons, Esq., a prominent member of the Richmond 
Bar, afterward a representative of that district in the Confederate Congress ; 
and I, after an impartial hearing of both speeches, boldly avowed the opinion 
that Mr. Lyons was the greater orator of the two, in my infantile judgment. 
It may have been the elegance and grace of our fellow-citizen, or his sono- 
rous, Ciceronian periods, or perhaps both united, as compared with the stout, 
portly figure and short, pithy sentences of the Xew-Englander, as my dim, 
shadowy remembrance now paints him, which captivated my childish fancy ; 
but there was evidently something in his manner, or appearance, or rhetoric, 
which indelibly stamped itself upon my mind, and made Mr. Lyons, for a 
long period, my beau ideal of an orator." 

52 409 



410 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

The childhood of Miss Hooper was passed with her maternal grand- 
mother, a woman of strong and well-cultivated mind for the ante- 
revolutionary period. Politics was her forte. She was never quite 
so near the climax of happiness as when she could engage a Demo- 
crat in controversy, and overthrow (as she conceived) some of his pet 
theories, by a womanly thrust, or an apt quotation from the Sage of 
Ashland, her paragon of statesmanship. Who can aver that these sur- 
roundings had no influence in shaping the habits of thought and man- 
ner of writing of Miss Hooper? 

Miss Hooper's father made her, his only one, a companion from 
infancy ; taught her to read at an early age, years before she was old 
enough to go to school; interested himself in her childish pleasures 
and pursuits. Mr. Hooper was a man of sound judgment and supe- 
rior practical sense, and was always very ambitious for his daughter. 

In her childhood, authorship nad been Miss Hooper's hobby ; but 
emancipated from the restraints of the school-room, for several years 
she had no ambition beyond present enjoyment. It is to Reviews, of 
which department of literature she is particularly fond, that Miss 
Hooper is indebted for most of her knowledge of authors, never having 
had access to a library. 

Her first article was published in the "Religious Herald," Rich- 
mond, under the nom de plume of "Adrienne," which she still retains. 

Her first story was published in a literary weekly of Richmond, and 
was much complimented by the editress; since which time she has 
contributed to Southern and Northern literary journals. During the 
war, "Adrienne" Avas one of the most prominent contributors to the 
" Magnolia Weekly," Richmond. Her novelettes were lacking in 
vivacity, and the characters were similar. " Ashes of Roses " we con- 
sider her cleverest novelette ; some of the scenes being not only 
lifelike, but capitally delineated. Her best productions will shortly 
be given to the public. 

Shortly before the close of the war, Mr. Hooper died ; and with the 
downfall of the Confederacy, her property was all swept away ; and 
single-handed, this true Christian woman prepared to contend with the 
" cold charities of the world in the battle of life." 

A Virginian by birth, having ever resided within the borders of the 
" mother of States," Miss Hooper is proud of the " Old Dominion," 
and clings to her, " desolated," as she rejoiced in her "pomp and beau- 
ty." She converses fluently and elegantly. As a correspondent, Miss 



SUSAN C. HOOPER. 411 

Hooper is to be praised ; her letters are natural and interesting, an 
index of the character of the writer. 

In the writings of Miss Hooper, the defects are those that are inhe- 
rent in her nature and surroundings. Having never travelled or 
mingled in "society," so called, her novelettes are necessarily plain, 
unvarnished records of home-life in the middle class of society ; in 
which, perhaps, the religious element predominates too strongly for the 
mass of readers. We think Miss Hooper has erred in too little follow- 
ing Longfellow's suggestion, " to look into her heart and write." 

Miss Hooper is at this time (1871) an assistant teacher in the Kich- 
mond Female Institute. 



THE OCCUPATION OF RICHMOND. 

I do not believe there ever was a more panic-stricken woman than I, the 
first day, and, indeed, the first week of the occupation of Richmond by the 
Federal troops ; but, upon present reflection, I admit that the causes for 
alarm existed more in my imagination than in reality, 

Sunday was the loveliest of April days, the morning as quiet as any 
within four years ; and worshippers wended their way to church as peace- 
fully as if " wars and rumors of wars " were mere abstractions. In the af- 
ternoon, there were whisperings of evacuation ; and, toward evening, elon- 
gated visages, the constant whistle of locomotives, and fugitive inhabitants, 
betokened some unusual commotion ; but I remembered the gun-boat panic 
in J 62, and persistently refused to credit the evidence of my senses. Such 
was my confidence in the success of our cause, that it was not until eleven 
o'clock that night, when it was positively asserted that our pickets were to 
be withdrawn two hours thereafter, that I began to realize the situation. 
That slumber visited not my eyes you will readily believe ; but it is too 
much for your credulity to believe that hope was still inspired by my reflec- 
tions upon the numerous miraculous interpositions of Providence in behalf 
of God's chosen people in ancient times, particularly the deliverance of 
Hezekiah from the hosts of Sennacherib; and I fondly dreamed, even then, 
that the enemy would never be permitted to enter our " beautiful, seven- 
hilled city." This delusion was dispelled about dawn by an explosion which 
shook the house to its very foundation, and I sprang up, exclaiming to my 

room-mate, " Oh, L , the Yankees are shelling us ! " and shortly after, 

there was another report more terrific still, which fully convinced me that 
the enemy had opened a bombardment. These reports we soon ascertained 
to be from the destruction of the " Patrick Henry," at the Rockets, and the 
powder magazine, almost in our immediate vicinity; and were but the be- 
ginning of the explosions, which were continued throughout the morning at 



412 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

the armory and the arsenal. About sunrise, the mob, who had been sacking 
the stores all night, completed their work by firing the houses they had rifled. 
The brooding wing of the destroying angel seemed to hover over us in the 
dense clouds of smoke which obscured the sun, and made almost a twilight 
darkness at midday. The fire raged furiously all day, and by night at 
least one-half of the business portion of the city was in ashes. 

About eight o'clock in the morning, in the midst of the consternation 
about the conflagration, there was a general stampede of the pillagers from 
" down town," fleeing before the enemy. As everything was remarkably 
quiet, except in -the burning district, and I expected they would enter with 
" a great flourish of trumpets," I pronounced it all a hoax, until one of our 
neighbors assured me " he had seen the Yankees on the Square." My first 
view of them was about ten o'clock, when two regiments of fine-looking, 
soldierly fellows, whom, but for their splendid uniforms, I might have 
imagined some of our own brave boys, advanced up the street with a firm, 
steady tread, and a dignified, martial air. I confess, until then, anxiety for 
my personal safety had absorbed every other feeling ; but when I descried 
through the closed blinds the " stars and stripes " waving in the Confeder- 
ate capital, I burst into tears. 

The first freshet of my grief having subsided, I became tolerably com- 
posed ; but, in the afternoon, was again precipitated into a panic by the ap- 
proach of a colored brigade, who rushed pellmell past our residence, sing- 
ing, shouting, yelling, firing, the white officers not even endeavoring to re- 
strain them. We anticipated such scenes that night as marked the occupa- 
tion of Columbia, S. C. ; and as these black fiends were encamped only two 
squares beyond us, we apprehended danger to our neighborhood from their 
proximity. However, everything passed off quietly, and we scarcely heard 
a footfall on the street after nightfall. 

" Our friends, the enemy," (to quote the polite language of the late Mr. 
Daniel, of the " Examiner," who fortunately died the week before the evac- 
uation,) have preserved very good order ever since their occupation. There 
have been some irregularities and depredations in the vicinity of the camps, 
particularly before the removal of the negro troops ; but, as far as possible, 
they have been promptly punished. Indeed, ma chere, I thought I never 
knew what gratitude was until the first week of the Federal rule here : every 
hour we were protected from violence seemed a miracle of grace. The 
authorities and the soldiery, in the main, have pursued a conciliatory course 
toward our citizens, and have carefully refrained from any exultation over a 
fallen foe. At church they are exceedingly respectful and devotional ; they 
have been particularly courteous to ladies ; don't even glance at us in the 
street, except to move aside to allow us to pass 

An amusing incident occurred not long since on Franklin Street, the 
fashionable promenade of the city. A belle, in meeting a Federal officer, 
doubled her veil ; but just as he passed, a gust of wind drifted it at his feet. 



SUSAN C. HOOPER. 413 

He picked it up and presented it very gallantly, meanwhile concealing his 
face with his hat — a suitable reproof for her silly affectation. 

Another incident, more interesting still, as showing the temper of the 
people : Last week, several young ladies, at the passport office, while await- 
ing their passports, entered into a cheerful conversation, but carefully ab- 
staining from any allusion to the Yankees or the state of the country. An 
officer in the crowd appeared interested in their discourse, and presently 
made a casual inquiry. He was answered civilly, but coldly ; but, not re- 
garding his repulse, he pursued his interrogatories on indifferent topics. 
Finding he could elicit no reference to politics or the war, he pertly asked : 
" Well, what do you think of the success of your Confederacy now ? " " Sir," 
replied one of the girls, " with God nothing is impossible ; and I believe 
with his assistance we shall yet achieve our independence ; for we are as- 
sured that ' whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth.' " Her questioner, 
crest-fallen and abashed, hung his head, and was soon lost in the crowd. 

We are allowed considerable latitude of speech, of which we are not 
slow to avail ourselves. Treasonable utterances are not tolerated in the pul- 
pit; but some of our ministers, even in conversation with the Federals, " use 
great plainness of speech," with perfect impunity 

On the 29th of April, an order was promulgated by General Halleck, to 
take effect on the 1st of May, that no minister would be allowed to perform 
a marriage ceremony without having taken the oath, and the parties con- 
tracting marriage should also be required to take the oath. Two of our 
wealthy young ladies of the beau monde were engaged to be married to a 
pair of North Carolina officers the first week in May ; but, upon the appear- 
ance of this order, the parties " out-heroded Herod," by being united in 
Hymen's silken tie on Sunday morning, April 30th — Rev. Dr. Burrows, of 
the First Baptist Church, officiating. It is said there were at least fifty 
marriages in Richmond that day. 




MATILDA S. EDWARDS. 

MATILDA CAROLINE SMILEY was the youngest of twelve 
children : six sons and six daughters made the old homestead a 
very bright and happy place. 

Matilda was left pretty much to her own inclinations in childhood, 
and spent many hours wandering through the woods around Grape 
Hill, (Nelson County, Virginia,) gathering flowers, and listening to 
the birds and the rippling of the bright waters that sparkled in the 
sunshine. It was a happy childhood, full of bright, sweet memories. 
She wrote a great deal; and her compositions, although hidden away, 
as she thought, securely, were often found by her sisters, who made 
them subjects of amusement, to her great mortification. One day, the 
presiding elder of the Virginia Conference, Rev. George W. Nalley, 
was stopping at the "homestead," and her sister found her blank book 
and showed it to him. The gentleman saw much good in these juve- 
nile productions, and took them with him, reading them to his friends, 
and some of the poems appeared in the "Richmond Advocate," then 
edited by Rev. S. M. Lee. Not long afterward, Mr. Nalley and Bishop 
Dogget selected poems from the MSS. book, and a volume was pub- 
lished. 

About that time, Mr. Nalley persuaded Mrs. Smiley to send Matilda 
to the Rockingham Institute, presided over by that good man and 
eminent educator, Rev. John C. Blackwell ; a portion of the proceeds 
of the book of poems was used to defray some of the expenses of her 
schooling. She spent nearly three years at the Institute. 

One by one her sisters left home as brides, until the youngest only 
was left. She kept up her studies and writings, publishing her arti- 
cles in the " Louisville Journal," " The Home Circle," and various 
other Southern journals. 

Just before the war, she married Rev. A. S. Edwards, son of Gene- 
ral S. M. Edwards, of Washington City. 

Life in Richmond was one of few pleasures and many privations to 
any, unless they had many "blue-backed promises to pay." Mrs. 
Edwards, used to the free and open-hearted hospitality of the country, 
414 



MARY McCABE. 415 

with the pure air and green woods, suffered many privations — one 
month staying in the house of a rich acquaintance, who let rooms 
cheaper to them on score of friendship ; another month in a damp 
basement room; and another in the third story of one of the Richmond 
hotels, then used as a hospital — living on pork, beans, and rye coffee, 
without sugar. And so life went by from year to year, until the Con- 
federacy ended, and the drama closed with the fall and burning of 
Richmond. 

After the fall of the Confederacy, Mrs. Edwards went back to her 
childhood's home, "Grape Hill," and opened a female school; but the 
country was so poor that it did not succeed, and the school was closed, 

Mrs. Edwards has little time for writing, surrounded by a family 
of small children ; and like all Southern women, she has many small 
cares upon her hands. She anticipates publishing a poem this fall. 

William Archer Cocke, Esq., the author of "Constitutional History 
of the United States," a work which attracted considerable attention, 
enriching our literature, and placing the author high upon the list of 
Southern authors, in "Sketches of Southern Literature," published in 
1863, notices the volume of poems of Matilda " as an agreeable vol- 
ume of minor poems, which has much of womanly tenderness and deli- 
cate sweetness." 
1868. 



MRS. MARY McCABE. 

AMONG the prominent contributors of prose and verse to the 
"Magnolia Weekly" — the most prominent literary journal of 
the "Confederate States," published in Richmond from 1863 to the 
close of the war — was "Miss Courtland." 

She married Mr. James D. McCabe, Jr., at the time editor of the 
"Magnolia Weekly," and one of the few successful young authors of 
the South. Mr. McCabe, Jr. is the author of several books. The best 
known, probably, is his "Life and Campaigns of General Lee," pub- 
lished in 1867. 

Mrs. McCabe is residing in Brooklyn, N. Y. 

1869. 



MARY J. S. UPSHUR. 

MISS UPSHUR, well known under her pseudonym of " Fanny 
Fielding," has written for nearly every literary journal of the 
South, prose and poetry. She is one of the few writers who entertain 
the strictest ideas of the responsibility of writers for the press, in 
any capacity whatever ; aiming to be useful in her sphere — " to leave 
no line which, dying, she would wish to blot." 

Miss Upshur's birthplace is in Accomac County, Virginia, on the 
wave- washed Eastern Shore, where, almost literally, the Atlantic bil- 
lows rocked her cradle, and the ocean waves sung lullaby. She was 
removed from here, in childhood, to Norfolk. She is a daughter of 
William Stith Upshur, (at one time a lawyer of the Accomac Bar, a 
contemporary of the Hons. H. A. Wise and Thomas H. Bayly,) and a 
niece of Judge Abel P. Upshur, who was Secretary of State during 
President Tyler's Administration. 

Miss Upshur has an inherent fondness for books — could read "hand- 
somely," it has been remarked, at four years old. Though, when a 
child, devoted to play, she would frequently indulge in seasons of 
retirement in a dimly-lighted closet, poring over "Pilgrim's Progress," 
and other books of a serious character. Much of her childhood was 
spent in lonely, old country-houses, with little company and many 
books. 

She commenced writing for the press at an early age. Her ambi- 
tion was to be identified with the "literature of the South." Her first 
story, of any length, was a novelette, entitled " Florine de Genlis," 
and appeared in a Norfolk paper. Miss Upshur has written generally 
over the signature of " Fanny Fielding ; " but sometimes over other 
assumed names, and frequently without any nom de plume. 

Like Miss Evans, the author of " Beulah," etc., Miss Upshur was 
educated entirely at home ; the difference being that the former was 
educated by her mother, while the latter lost her mother early, had 
no elder sister, and was the feminine head of the family from her very 
juvenile years, and was educated principally by her father. 
416 



MARY J. S. UPSHUR 417 

Miss Upshur's most ambitious prose work, that has been published, 
appeared in the "Home Monthly," Nashville, 1867, entitled "Confed- 
erate Notes," the "prefatory" to which was in the following strain : 

" Yes, despite whatever odium may attach to the term, thus is baptized 
this desultory record, which, written out from an irregular journal of the 
late war time, and immediately antecedent period, seems not thus misnamed. 

"Those blue-backed 'promises to pay ' are significant of a grander venture 
and a nobler hope than mines of gold can express ; and exalted in such asso- 
ciation, we brave the pronunciamento ' below par,' only wishing the new 
namesake merited, equally with its original, exemption therefrom. 

" Critics of a different turn of mind may vote these ' Notes ' discordant, 
and assign them one characteristic in common with those of the dying 
swan, whose ' last ' are traditionally ' best.' Humoring the metaphor, we 
feel that not a few are left, yet, upon whose ear the sound will fall like a bar 
of some old, familiar strain in music, and to whom, though the original 
melody has died out in air, each echo is a memory of the sweetest song that 
was ever sung in vain." 

" Confederate Notes," said a critic noted for his fairness and clear- 
ness of thought, "is a work of great power and deep, earnest thought. 
The style is terse, graphic, and idiomatic. This work will place the 
writer indisputably among the leading writers of the South." 

The "Richmond Whig "said: "Confederate Notes," (it was pub- 
lished anonymously,) " in a strictly literary sense, and apart from any 
sectional or political significance contained in its title, is destined, we 
believe, to make its mark upon the comparatively fallow field of what 
is called Southern authorship." 

The following extract from a letter from Miss Upshur is a picture 
of her every-day life, showing she is no bas bleu, in the popular accep- 
tation of the term : 

" A just report of my literary career could, I feel, scarcely be made with- 
out some allusion to the peculiar circumstances , preventing that entire aban- 
don to study and contemplation almost necessary to insure high excellence 
in one who designs making authorship a profession." 

Of the poem " Margaret," given hereafter, she writes : 

"I perhaps should tell you that it was written, as so many of my efforts 
were, disjointed — that is, at odd times, when I was busy with other matters, 
and yet felt ' a call,' as the Quakers says, ' to write.' I kept pencil and 
paper in my work-basket, and jotted down a verse at intervals while engaged 
wirh a pressing job of sewing. 
53 



418 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

"Well, I fancy I see certain household achievements interrupting," writes 
she, "gleaming here and there through breaks — very plain to me, in most 
things I have accomplished; pots of jam perceptible between stanzas of 
poems; seams of sheets, of carpets, disjointing the general narrative and 
final catastrophe of some heroic tale. I do not sigh for more poetic sur- 
roundings, or that my lot is as it is. There is no poetry without beauty, and 
use is beauty. A woman can have no higher appointment, I hold, than the 
keeper of a home. Her first duty is here : if she can shine abroad after this, 
all well ; but this God intended as the centre of her warmth and light. So I 
believe." 

The following poem was extensively copied by the newspapers 
throughout the country. The " Norfolk Herald " thus prefaces it : 

" We take much pleasure in transferring the following beautiful stanzas 
from the pages of the 'Southern Literary Messenger,' for April, (1859,) 
They are the production, it seems, of one of the most gifted of the young 
ladies of Virginia, and one who should rank higher than many whose names 
have become famous. . . . We commend them to the lovers of the beau- 
tiful ; for they will find, under their simple style, exquisite figures, conceived 
in the very spirit of poesy's self." 

MAEGAEET. 

Oh ! Margaret, pretty Margaret ! 

I pray ye linger yet 
At the stile beyond the hay-field, 

When the summer sun is set; 
And I'll tell ye in the twilight 

What ye never shall forget. 

Oh ! Margaret, sweet Margaret ! 

With face so lily fair, 
The sunbeams loved to nestle 

In the meshes of her hair, 
And gleam and gleam more golden 

From the light they borrowed there. 

Oh ! Margaret, sweet Margaret ! 

With eyes 01 violet blue ; 
Or, when she looked most lovingly, 

Of that celestial hue 
The heavens show when cloud gates ope 

To let the good pass through. 



MARY J. S. UPSHUR. 419 

Oh ! Margaret, merry Margaret I 

Beyond the meadow mill, 
My heart will listen, listen 

For your gentle tripping still; 
All its pit-pat echoes waking, 

As of old, at your sweet will. 

But Margaret, sweet Margaret I 

Ye '11 never come again, 
Like the spring-time after winter, 

Like the sunshine after rain; 
But I could kiss the blessed dust 

Where your sweet form hath lain. 

But Margaret, sainted Margaret! 

The hay-field and the mill, 
The meadow-path, its windings, 

And its little running rill, 
Will speak more lovingly of you 

Than the grave-yard, all so still. 

And Margaret, blessed Margaret ! 

In my heart's love-lacking dearth, 
I '11 look upon the sunshine, 

And the flowers that strew the earth, 
And I '11 think I see in each of them 

The types of your new birth. 

Then Margaret, sweet Margaret ! 

Like sunshine after rain, 
Like summer after winter, 

Ye will glad my heart again ; 
For I '11 say they are your messengers, 

And they shall not speak in vain. 

Miss Upshur has completed and expects to publish a novel, entitled 
"Mabbit Thorn ;" and "Confederate Notes" will also probably appear 
in book-form. 

In 1869, Miss Upshur lost her father, and shortly afterwards made 
New York her home. She has recently married a Mr. Sturges, of New 
York City. 
1870. 



MISS SAEAH J. C. WHITTLESEY. 

THE subject of this sketch, familiarly known to the readers of 
magazines and weekly journals, for which she has contributed 
both prose and verse, was born in Williamstown, Martin County, 
North Carolina, came to Virginia in 1848, and now resides at Alex- 
andria. 

Miss Whittlesey commenced rhyming at an early age, and published 
her first article in the " Edenton (North Carolina) Sentinel," in 1846. 
She published a book of poems, entitled "Heart Drops from Memory's 
Urn," in 1852 ; and through M. W. Dodd, New York, 1860, a volume 
of prose novelettes, entitled "The Stranger's Stratagem; or, The 
Double Deceit; and other Stories." She received a prize from a 
North Carolina paper for a novelette, entitled " Reginald's Revenge ; " 
also, from the same journal, a prize for a novelette, entitled " The 
Hidden Heart." She again was the successful competitor for a prize 
offered by "The American Union," of Boston, "The Maid of Myrtle 
Vale " being the title of the successful tale. 

In 1866, the publishers in New York of a series of Dime Novels 
appropriated one of Miss Whittlesey's stories, " The Bug Oracle," and 
published it without her knowledge or consent. 

We believe she has recently, or is about to publish, a novel, entitled 
' Herbert Hamilton ; or, The Bas Bleu." Her longest, and we think 
most successful novel, appeared in the " Field and Fireside," entitled 
" Bertha, the Beauty." 

420 



HELEN G. BEALE, 

THE author of "Lansdowne," is a young lady of the "Old Dominion 
State," a daughter of William C. Beale, a merchant of Freder- 
icksburg, where she was born and has lived always, with the excep- 
tion of two years spent in the " Old North State," after the bombard- 
ment of Fredericksburg during the war. She spent the day of the 
bombardment in a cellar at her home. Her father died when she 
was fourteen years of age. Her education was conducted by Rev. G. 
Wilson McPhail, now President of Davidson College, Xorth Carolina, 
until she was sixteen, at which time she began the duties of life as a 
teacher, and has since spent the largest portion of her life in a school- 
room. Her aim during these years has been, and still is, to perfect 
herself as a teacher. Being thus occupied all day, she wrote " Lans- 
downe " one winter, in the evenings, after tea, for amusement. 

A lady, who has had close association with Miss Beale, so as to 
afford her the best facilities for observing the springs of thought and 
action to which we are indebted for " Lansdowne," her first literary 
effort, writes to me : 

" While reading ' Lansdowne,' both in MS. and print, I was confirmed in 
my idea that worthy persons, who are impelled to put their thoughts on 
paper, throw into their creations their own mental and spiritual life, how- 
ever unconscious they may be of producing any transcript of themselves. 
This is seen in the analysis of the two most prominent characters of the 
story. 

" We all see, daily, persons resembling the other characters : their traits 
may have been personified from observations of common life; but these two 
are pure creations of the author's brain — the hero, Theodore Lansdowne, 
loving, sensitive, tender, and beautiful, being the type of the aesthetic por- 
tion of the writer's human emotional economy — an acknowledgment of 
homage to the truth of the saying, ' A thing of beauty is a joy forever ; ' while 
Horace Ashton is a portrayal of another side of her character. In him, we 
find a crucifixion of self, in giving up not only worldly ease and secular 
ambition, but even love itself, held in abeyance to the call of Divine truth. 
Here is the culmination, that defines more faithfully than wordv sketch of 

* 421 



422 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

mine could give, the calibre of the author of 'Lansdowne : ' so does she 'ful- 
fil her God-given hest.' 

" In person, Miss Beale is very slight, of medium stature, fine skin, bright 
brown hair, and broad, high forehead ; but the eye is a mystery I have not 
yet fathomed, beautiful, clear brown, calm almost to sadness, as the ' mist 
resembles the rain;' though if she be moved to mirth, sunshine breaks 
through the mist, and a most quick, nimble spirit peeps out, full of humor, 
which has the gift of speech. This lady has written a book worthy of her- 
self, and which, like the companionship of the author, makes 

' The cares that invest the day, 

Fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away.' " 

" Lansdowne " was published serially in a weekly journal published 
in Baltimore — "Southern Society;" and as a narrative of Southern 
society, it was an ornament to the pages of any journal, and particu- 
larly suited to the one in which it appeared. Like many illy-managed 
Southern periodicals, " Southern Society " existed for less than a year. 

Professor F. A. March, of Easton, Pennsylvania, (a gentleman of 
reputation for learning, in Europe as well as in this country,) thus 
alludes to " Lansdowne " : " Over and above its merits as a story, it is 
decidedly worthy of the honor of appearing in book form, on the score 
of its value as a memorial of the society which it depicts." 

1868. 




MKS. CORNELIA J. M. JORDAN. 

THE subject of this notice was born in the ancient and romantic 
city of Lynchburg, Virginia, on the 11th of January, 1830. 
The maiden name of Mrs. Jordan was Cornelia Jane Matthews. 
She was the eldest of the three daughters of Mr. Edwin Matthews, at 
one time mayor of the city ; a citizen of sincerest worth, intelligence, 
and character, highly respected by the entire community, and fre- 
quently honored and rewarded with positions of public responsibility. 
The wife of Mr. Matthews was a sister of the Hon. William L. Goggin, 
of Bedford County, and was a lady of rare accomplishments, of great 
personal beauty, and of many marked traits of amiability and excel- 
lence. She died when her eldest child was but five years old. Her 
husband, faithful to her memory, never married again ; but devoted 
himself to the care and training of his children, and sustained toward 
them, as far as was possible, the relation of father and mother united 
in one. The three daughters, after their mother's death, lived with 
their maternal grandmother in Bedford County, till the youngest was 
old enough to attend school, and then they were placed in charge of 
the Sisters of Visitation, Georgetown, D. C, It was while in George- 
town that the first attempts of Miss Cornelia to compose, in verse, in 
accordance with the rules of prosody and composition, were made. 
Heretofore, she had written " as the spirit moved " — a spontaneous 
and impulsive utterance. She had sung as a bird, but was now to 
sing as a trained and cultivated musician. Her " wood-notes wild," 
which had been merely soliloquies, assumed the form of May-day 
addresses, verses to her schoolmates, album addresses, etc. These 
efforts were crowned with the grateful guerdon of flattery and praise : 
their author began to be known as the " poet laureate," and was 
always in requisition whenever anything metrical was needed. At 
the commencement of 1846, the highest prize in poetry and prose was 
conferred upon her, amidst admiring plaudits. Perhaps no other evi- 
dence of triumph ever gave her half the pride and pleasure conveyed 
by the simple and sincere assurance of her teacher's appreciation and 

her friends' approval and satisfaction. 

423 



424 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

The death of Emily, the youngest sister, occurred at this j^eriod. 
She was only fourteen years of age ; but united to great liveliness a 
richly endowed mind and noble heart, which won the affection of all 
her companions, and the almost idolatrous love of her elder sister 
The fair unfolding of a flower so sweet and rare was watched with 
almost maternal solicitude, and the sudden blighting of the beautiful 
blossom inflicted a deep wound, whose scar will ever remain to witness 
its cruel severity. This was the first great sorrow of the poetess. It 
made a profound impression on her nature, and imparted — uncon- 
sciously, no doubt — a melancholy character to many of her pieces. It 
was in memory of her dead darling that she dedicated her first book, 
many years after, to " The Fireside and the Grave : the Living and 
Dead of a Broken Home Circle." The consolation of an assured 
hope and the gracious promises of the Divine faith were not wanting. 
But even these could not soothe the great sorrow which despoiled so 
early the tenderest emotions and aspirations. 

The two surviving daughters returned, in 1846, to their grief-stricken 
father. The spring of 1851 found the elder daughter the happy bride 
of Mr. Francis H. Jordan, of Page County, a distinguished and accom- 
plished member of the Bar, and afterward commonwealth's attorney. 
A beautiful home in the Valley of Virginia became now the centre of 
her affections and the object of her care. It was the fit seat of the 
Muses, presenting a rare and unrivalled combination of mountain and 
water scenery. Various poems embalmed its beauties, and evidenced 
the happiness and tranquil joy which awoke in the married heart of 
the poetess. 

The early years of Mrs. Jordan's married life were spent in the Val- 
ley of Virginia ; but in the first year of the war, she was called upon 
to mourn a double loss — that of her only surviving parent and her 
only child, both of whom died in the short space of one year. 

Shortly before the commencement of the war, Mrs. Jordan published 
a collection of her fugitive poems, under the title of "Flowers of Hope 
and Memory." The book included the poems which, from time to 
time, she had written, and which had " gone the rounds " of the news- 
paper world — waifs upon the sea of journalistic literature. The book 
was brought out by Mr. A. Morris, of Richmond, Virginia, at a time 
which was sadly unpropitious ; for no sooner was it issued than com- 
munication between the sections was at an end and all the horrors of 
war inaugurated. 



CORNELIA J. M. JORDAN. 425 

About this time, Mrs. Jordan's health became seriously impaired, 
and she was debarred from writing by a disease of the visional nerve, 
which had previously threatened her with blindness. However, with 
the assistance of an amanuensis, she managed to maintain a correspond- 
ence with several journals. In April, 1863, she visited Corinth, Mis- 
sissippi, where her husband held a staff appointment under General 
Beauregard. It was here that she wrote her poem, entitled "Corinth," 
which, on its publication after the surrender, was suppressed and 
burned by order of one General Terry, at that time commanding in 
Eichmond. Mrs. Jordan made this vandalism the subject of a sarcas- 
tic communication to one of the newspapers of New York, and detailed 
how her little pamphlet, entitled "Corinth, and other Poems," of which 
an edition of about five hundred copies only was printed, had been 
seized by the timorous military commander as dangerous and heretical. 
Mrs. Jordan had lost all her possessions by the war, and she had 
hoped, by the sale of her poems, to obtain return at least sufficient to 
meet her pressing needs, in that moment of general prostration and 
ruin. How her hopes were frustrated is shown in the facts that have 
just been recited. 

Daring the existence of the bazaar held in Richmond by the "Hol- 
lywood Memorial Association," about two years ago, the Association 
published a poem of Mrs. Jordan's, entitled " Richmond : Her Glory 
and her Graves," the last of any length from her pen. 

Mrs. Jordan has always been, even from early childhood, a devotee 
of the poetic impulse. She is of an essentially poetic temperament. 
She was especially partial to the poetry of Mrs. Hemans ; and she 
still retains in her possession an old volume of Mrs. Hemans's poetry, 
thumbworn, faded, and much abused, which has been her inseparable 
companion for years. A little incident connected with the childhood 
of our poetess, will show how strongly her nature was wedded to the 
divine gift of poetry, even at a time when the could have but a faint 
conception of the poet's mission. On one occasion, an old phrenolo- 
gist — at a time when phrenology was the fashion — came to her 
grandmother's residence in Bedford County. Casting his eye around 
for a subject, he selected the little Cornelia. Running his hand over 
her head in a very knowing manner, he observed, with a smile: "A 
pretty hard head, to be sure ; but one that will some of these days 
make a poet." The child's heart throbbed wildly at the announce- 
ment ; and often, in the years that have since passed, has the memory 
54 



426 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

of the old man's words come back to her to give her courage and con- 
fidence. 

Mrs. Jordan resides at present in Lynchburg. Though her fortunes 
are altered by the war, and by the result of the unfortunate invest- 
ment of a large estate left by her father, she still finds a mother's con- 
solation in training and caring for her only child, a bright little girl 
of six years of age. 

It is to be hoped that ere long Mrs. Jordan will give to the world a 
volume containing all her poems, and especially that entitled " Corinth," 
the published edition of which, at the behest of a backward civiliza- 
tion, was so wantonly destroyed. 

1869. Charles Dimitry. 



FALL SOFTLY, WINTEK SNOW, TO-NIGHT. 

Fall softly, winter snow, to-night, 

Upon my baby's grave, 
Where withered violets faded lie, 

And cypress branches wave. 
Ye bright flakes, as ye touch the ground, 
Oh! kiss for me that little mound. 

Beneath it lies a waxen form 

Of boyish beauty rare — 
The dust upon his eyes of blue, 

And on his shining hair. 
Above his little heart so low, 
Fall gently, gently, winter snow ! 

We laid him there when summer flowers 
Gave out their fragrant breath, 

And pale white roses watched beside 
That narrow bed of death. 

One soft curl from his sunny brow 

Is all of him that 's left me now. 

Ethereal snow, fit mantle thou 

For one so pure and fair; 
Fit emblem of the spotless robe 

His baby soul doth wear : 
As stormy night-winds howl and rave, 
Oh ! gently wrap his little grave. 



CORNELIA J. M. JORDAN. 427 



FLOWERS FOR A WOUNDED SOLDIER. 

Go, gentle flowers ! 
Go light the soldier's room, 
Go banish care and gloom, 
Go, with a voice of home 

Gladden his hours. 
Tell him of woods and fields, 
Tell him of hearts and shields, 
Tell him that sadness yields 

Kindly to you. 
Bear in your sunny smile 
Hopes that all cares beguile, 
Faith in All-Good the while 

Fervent and true. 
Go in your beauty drest, 
Types of the pure and blest; 
Bear to the weary rest, 

Holy and calm. 
Soothe, soothe his bosom's smart, 
Gladness and joy impart ; 
Breathe o'er the fevered heart 

Comfort and balm. 
Go in your summer bloom, 
Light up the soldier's room, 
Drive thence all care and gloom, 

Brighten his hours. 
Cheer him with memory-gleams — 
Pictures of woods and streams, 
Boy-haunts and childhood-dreams — 

Go, gentle flowers I 



LAURA R. FEWELL. 

MISS FEWELL was born in Brentsville, Prince William County, 
Virginia) and has spent the greater portion of her life there. 
Her father died when she was sixteen years of age, and immediately 
after she commenced teaching, and by her exertions in that way she 
has educated a younger brother and sister. 

She commenced writing during her school-days, when she was chief 
contributor to a school paper published in the institution where she 
was educated. She has written a great deal, occasionally publishing 
in various journals — contributing to Godey's "Lady's Book" under 
the nom de plume of " Parke Richards." 

During the war she wrote a novel, " Neria," which has not been 
published. In 1866, she came to Clark County, Georgia, and estab- 
lished a school, and contributed to "Scott's Magazine" and other 
journals. 



A VIRGINIA VILLAGE. — 1861. 

Who does not distinctly remember the spring of 1861 ? Not for the beauty 
of the season, though that was as lovely as smiling skies, balmy winds, and 
odorous flower-cups could make it ; but for the cloud, at first scarcely larger 
than a man's hand, that began to loom up in the political horizon, and the 

distant mutterings of the storm so soon to burst upon the land. 

Then came the call for troops, and soon the earth resounded with the 

tramp of armed men There was a glory and enthusiasm about the 

whole thing — in the waving banners, the glittering uniforms, and nod- 
ding plumes — that led captive the imagination and silenced reason. In 
every town where troops were quartered the ladies were affected with " button 
on the brain ; " and seemed to think life was only made to be spent in 
walking, riding, dancing, and flirting with the young officers. Youth and 
gayety were everywhere uppermost, unappalled by the spectacle of national 
distraction. 

To a little village situated in the lovely valley lying between the Bull Eun 
and Blue Ridge Mountains, only a faint echo of the din of war had pene- 
428 



LAURA R. FEWELL 429 

trated. Not a single company of soldiers had ever passed through or been 
camped in its vicinity ; and more than one of its young belles read with en- 
vious feelings the accounts of the brilliant conquests achieved over the hearts 
of the Carolinians and other Southern troops by their correspondents in more 
fortunate towns, and sighed over the hard fate which condemned them to 
" waste their sweetness on the desert air," for in that light they regarded the 
members of the county companies, most of whom they had known from 
their childhood. 

This little village merits a description: — It figured in more than one official 
bulletin during the war. It consisted of one long street, through the middle 
of which ran the turnpike, and on either side of this the houses — some very 
pretentious-looking structures of stucco and brick, others frame buildings, 
stained and weather-beaten — stretched for nearly a mile. Some few houses 
were situated on side streets crossing the main one at right angles, and there 
was a pleasant tradition among the people that their town had once rejoiced 
in back streets, but these, by common consent, were now given up to the 
hogs and nettles. In spite of these drawbacks, it was a quiet, cosey-looking 
place, especially when the trees that shaded it were in full foliage, and every 
garden and door-yard was flushed with flowers whose fragrance filled the air. 

A stranger would have thought that this little village, lying in the lap of 
verdant meadows, encircled by the Briarean arms of the mountains, and so 
remote from all busy thoroughfares of trade, would have escaped the cor- 
ruptions of larger towns, and its inhabitants, if not retaining the simplicity 
of country manners, would, at least, be free from the pride and exclusiveness 
of city life. But a short residence there would have taught him the fallacy 
of this opinion. Not in Washington, that modern Gomorrha of pride and 
vanity, did the strife for fashion and pre-eminence rage higher than in the 
little village of which we write. It might justly be called the town of cliques, 
for it boasted as many as any fashionable city extant. 

First, forming the elite of the place, were the families of the military and 
professional men, and those of the large landed proprietors residing on estates, 
and a few aspirants after aristocracy, who kept up an uncertain footing upon the 
outer bounds, but were not allowed to enter the arena of this charmed circle, 
from which all new-comers, whatever their personal merits, were rigorously 
excluded, unless they could exhibit a long list of illustrious ancestors. From 
this apex — this weme de la creme — society descended, in graduating circles, 
to the lowest phase of social life, which, strangely enough, was found in a 
castle; for so the inhabitant, who had aspirations above her station, termed 
the mud walls which formed her home. Except a few loiterers, mere 
lookers-on at life, all the inhabitants of the village belonged to some one of 
these circles, which were entirely separate and distinct, never infringing on 
each other's privileges, save in the manner of scandal and backbiting — 
those time-honored adjuncts of village-life — except when some stray cow or 
pig trespassed on neighboring property, when there was apt to be an out- 
break between the plebeians and patricians, sometimes coming to blows. 



MRS. LIZZIE PETIT CUTLER. 

LIZZIE PETIT was born in the town of Milton, Virginia, a place 
of some importance formerly, but which has been swallowed up 
by the increasing power and wealth of its more widely-known neigh- 
bor, Charlottesville. Her ancestry, on the paternal side, consisted of 
respectable farmers; on the mother's side, she boasted of descent from 
Monsieur Jean Jacques Marie Rene de Motteville Bernard, an early 
emigre to the colonies, driven from France by political disabilities. 

Monsieur de Bernard married in Virginia, and lived on his wife's 
estates on the James River. Miss Petit had the great misfortune to 
be left motherless in her early childhood. She was brought up by her 
grandmother and aunt with tender care and affection, upon one of 
the beautiful farms lying under the shadow of the Blue Ridge Moun- 
tains, in that most picturesque portion of the State of Virginia, near 
Charlottesville. She was a sprightly child, very precocious, sensitive, 
and of very delicate beauty. She very soon began to scribble rhymes 
and write little stories for her own and her cousin's amusement. At 
the age of thirteen she removed to Charlottesville, where the chape- 
ronage of her aunt enabled her to mingle in the gay society of the 
city. She was very bright, and a belle among the students at an age 
when most girls are scarcely released from their pinafores. She was 
soon trammelled in Cupid's fetters. But accident produced estrange- 
ment between her lover and herself, and he departed, to die in Ala- 
bama ; while she, in the shadow of this disappointment, found relief 
in the absorption of literary labor. She wrote here her first novel, 
"Light and Darkness." It was brought out by the Messrs. Appleton, 
and had very considerable success, both in this country and in Eng- 
land, where it ran through several editions. " Household Mysteries " 
was her second novel, written at the suggestion of Mr. Appleton. This 
book was written in the vortex of New York society. 

After eighteen months' rest, Miss Petit wrote again; but being 

advised unwisely, forsook her steadfast friends, the Appletons, and 

proffered her MS. to the Harpers, who rejected her work. After 

this, the Messrs. Appleton also refused it. This was a great disap- 

430 



LIZZIE PETIT CUTLER. 431 

poiutment to the young girl ; and her means becoming limited, she 
was induced to give a series of dramatic readings, which were so suc- 
cessful that she was thinking of going upon the stage, encouraged by 
the applause of connoisseurs in the histrionic art. While preparing 
herself for a " star engagement " proffered her, she nearly lost her life 
by her gown taking fire accidentally. She was saved by the presence 
of mind of her friend Mr. Oakley. This severe affliction caused her 
to pass several months of suffering on her couch ; but she was gradu- 
ally restored to health by the affectionate care of her many friends ; 
one among whom so endeared himself by his assiduous and constant 
attentions, tnat upon her recovery she became his wife. She lives 
now at her husband's residence, near New York, where she enjoys a 
tranquil domestic peace, and employs her leisure hours in the use of 
her pen. She is engaged in writing a novel, which will embrace the 
period of the war. 

Mrs. Cutler's sympathies, like those of all the true daughters of 
Virginia, were with her own people in their recent struggle; but 
powerless to aid, she could only weep over the misfortunes of her 
country. Her husband has been a prominent member of the Bar in 
New York. 

1869. S. A. D. 

SPIRIT-MATES. 

I always endeavor to preserve, in every character and circumstance por- 
trayed, the strict unities of truth and human nature. 

To a casual observer, the love existing between two such opposites as my 
hero and heroine may seem rather opposed to probability ; but I am sure 
one who looks farther into cause and effect, will agree with me in pronoun- 
cing it the most natural thing in the world. 

Ida herself, the perfect type of all that was feminine, delicate in organiza- 
tion, and timid, notwithstanding her sometime flashes of spirit, worshipped 
in Cameron the type of manliness, bravery, health, strength, and energy. 
Perhaps, in some respects, the intellect of the woman was superior — that is, 
she had more of those finer gifts of genius to which men, in all ages, have 
yielded homage; more of that rare union of ideality and passion, which 
gives to the harp of poesy the chord which vibrates in the hearts of the 
multitude ; and it was better so : for these qualities, in the exquisite fineness 
of their moral texture, suit better a woman than a man. 

The world may drink in the passionate incense which genius ]mrns on 
the shrine of feeling, until their whole moral nature becomes purified and 



432 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

elevated; but the "spirits finely moulded," which have given birth to 
thoughts like these, suit not to come in contact with the jagged edges and 
rude paths of common life. 

Within the world of her own home, a woman of fine intellect and feelings 
may, unless opposed by extraordinary adverse influences, create an atmos- 
phere redolent of all that the most dreamy and ideal worshipper of the holy 
and beautiful could desire ; but a man must tread rough paths ; he must 
come in contact with the coarse and vulgar elements which compose a por- 
tion of the world ; and alas ! it needs not to tell how often the children of 
poesy have laVed their spirit-plumes in the muddy, turbid waters of the 
world's recklessness and vice. 

It needs not to tell ; for their fall, like that of the children of light in the 
olden time, is never forgotten. The remembrance, like a shadowy pall, 
darkens future ages with its influence. 

But to return to the more immediate theory of our present discussion. 

Nature created men and women in pairs. There can be no more doubt of 
this than the laws of affinity in the science of chemistry. There is the 
essence of truth in the homely saying, " Matches were made in heaven ; but 
they get terribly mixed coming down." 

There is for every one a spirit-mate ; one who, morally, mentally, and 
physically, must gratify every necessity of our being ; with whom to live 
would be happiness : such happiness as would at once ennoble and elevate 
our nature, bringing it nearer to that of the angels. 

And in our search for a being like this, we often pass them in our own 
blind folly, rather than through the influence of that fabled power men call 
destiny. 

Allured by some passing meteor, turned aside by convenience, caprice, 
passion, we wander from the star whose light, in after years, we remember 
with the vain prayer : 

" Oh ! would it shone to guide us still, 
Although to death or deadliest ill." 

What is the ideal cherished, even though vaguely, in the mind of every 
one, but a dreamy sense, an unconscious divination — if I may so express it 
— of the existence of a being formed by nature to blend with and become a 
part of ourselves ? 

The loves of a lifetime — what are they but the illusions of an hour, when, 
deceived by some passing resemblance, we cry, Eureka! and think the bourne 
is found — until the heart, disappointed, recoils upon itself, or circumstance 
mercifully tears the counterfeit from our clinging grasp. 

God forbid that there should be many loves in a lifetime ; for 't is a sad 
thing, nay, 't is a sin, to waste on many feelings which should be the hoarded 
wealth of one; like the scattering drops of a rare perfume, which sweeten the 



M. VIRGINIA TEEHUNE. 433 

common atmosphere, but can never return to the source from whence they 
emanated. 

I have sometimes thought there might be an inner fount shut deep in the 
soul, never to be unsealed save at the magic touch ; never to give forth its 
wealth of thrilling bliss and unalloyed sweetness to aught save the one. 

'Tis a blessed belief! And yet how sad it is to reflect that many live 
who are destined never to have the seal removed from the lip of the foun- 
tain; many, too, who are surrounded by all the nearer ties of life — ties formed 
in haste by the force of circumstance, convenience, expediency ! Far better 
to live and die alone, than thus to rebel against the good angel of our nature, 
clasping the cold corpse of happiness, while its soul sleeps in the unsealed 
fount of our own bosom, or animates the form of the far-off unseen being, 
between whom and ourselves we have opened an impassable gulf. 

MARY E. WOODSON. 

MISS WOODSON is a native of Goochland County, Virginia, 
where her parents still reside. She has contributed to various 
papers and magazines under different noms de plume. Her first pub- 
lished novel — for she has her juvenile productions in manuscript — 
was published in 1860, by A. Morris, Richmond, anonymously. It 
was an interesting and well-sustained novel for so young a girl, and 
was entitled " The Way it all Ended." The Richmond " Dispatch," 
in a notice of this book, speaks of it " as a truly astonishing production 
for a girl who had never been five miles from home, and over whose 
head but fifteen summers had passed." 

After the war, Miss Woodson published a novel in the Montgomery 
" Ledger," entitled " Perdita : a Romance of the War." This serial 
was very flatteringly received. Her address is Issaquena P. 0., Gooch- 
land Co., Va. 
1871. 

M. VIRGINIA TERHTJNE. 

M VIRGINIA HAWES (the maiden name of the well-known and 
• well-beloved " Marian Harland," whose pseudonym has become 
"as familiar as a household word") is the second daughter of the late 
Samuel P. Hawes, of Richmond — deceased in 1868 — and Mrs. 



434 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Hawes, nee Smith, a near relative of Rev. Dr. B. M. Smith, of the 
Presbyterian Church. 

M. Virginia Hawes's early days were passed in Powhatan County, 
the residence of her parents at that time. About 1850, Mr. Hawes 
removed to Richmond, where he was engaged in merchandising. At 
the age of fourteen, Virginia contributed, under an assumed name, a 
series of sketches to a city journal. The commendations bestowed 
upon these articles were precious encouragement to the young author ; 
and she continued to write, contributing anonymously tales and poems 
to the different periodicals of the day. 

In 1854, assuming the name of " Marian Harland," Miss Hawes 
sent forth her first book with the imprint of A. Morris, Richmond. 
"Alone " was a most decided success ; edition after edition was called 
for. In 1856 appeared " The Hidden Path," Marian Harland's most 
charming novel — my favorite of all of her books. Shortly after the 
publication of this book, Miss Hawes was married to Rev. E. P. 
Terhune, in charge of a church in one of the central counties of Vir- 
ginia. "Moss-Side," her next volume, was written in her Virginia 
home; and in 1858, Rev. Mr. Terhune was called to take pastoral 
charge of the First Reformed Dutch Church, Newark, New Jersey, 
where they have resided ever since. 

Mrs. Terhune's younger sister, Alice Hawes, several years her junior, 
early evinced a talent for literature, but native timidity prevented her 
appearing before the public. Her only published tale was forwarded 
anonymously to the " Southern Literary Messenger," and appeared 
after her death ; for she died in the Christmas tide of 1863, in the 
" gladness of youth," The title of this tale was " Yule." 

Marian Harland has been a most industrious writer. Her tales and 
novelettes furnished to the magazines and literary journals of the 
country would form many volumes. 

The following comprise her books : 

Alone. 1854. 

Hidden Path. 1856. 

Moss-Side. 1857. 

Nemesis. 1859. 

Miriam. 1864. 

Husks. 1864. 

Husbands and Homes. 1865. 

Sunnybank. 1866. 



M. VIRGINIA TERHUNE. 435 

Helen Gardner's Wedding-Day. 1867. 

Ruby's Husband. 1868. 

The Christmas Holly. 1868. 

Phemie's Temptation. 1869. 

At Last. 1870. 

The Empty Heart. 1871. 

Common Sense in the Household. 1871. 

"Sunnybank" — published a short time after the close of the war, 
purporting to be a sequel to "Alone," her first book — was criticized 
more than any of " Marian Harland's " novels, and was bitterly 
denounced by several Southern journals, who fabricated absurd re- 
ports in regard to the political status of the family of Mrs. Terhune. 
Although residing in Newark, N. J., throughout the war, "Marian 
Harland's " husband was a " man of peace," and preaching " tidings 
of peace and good-will." Mrs. Terhune's youngest brothers were in 
the Confederate army. The eldest brother, to whom " Alone " was 
dedicated, is a Presbyterian clergyman, stationed in the interior of 
Virginia. 

Mrs. Terhune has quite a number of "olive plants round her table." 

The following notice of "Sunnybank" is from the New York 
" Round Table :" 

"... This work is undertaken and executed in the same conscientious and 
painstaking spirit which characterized the author's earlier productions. 
With a simple love story she has interwoven an interesting portraiture of 
the trials experienced by those who bore the burden of the severe conflict 
from which this country has so recently emerged ; and she has so far suc- 
ceeded in rendering justice to the heroic devotion displayed on both sides, as 
to satisfy the reader that she has endeavored to prevent any partisan spirit 
< from warping her judgment or tinging her writing with bitterness or extrav- 
agance. The incidents are narrated in the form of a double journal, or series 
of letters, — Eleanor and Agatha furnishing alternate chapters, and each taking 
up the thread of the story in such a manner that the interest is maintained 
throughout without flagging. 

" That this book will fail to satisfy the intellectual taste of many of our 
readers must be obvious : the style is faulty, and there is occasionally a dis- 
regard for grammatical rules scarcely pardonable in an experienced writer. 
But while it is impossible to accord the authoress of ' Sunnybank ' a place 
among the first female novelists of the day, we cheerfully acknowledge that 
she appeals to a very large class of society by omitting all that runs counter 
to its prejudices, and by carefully avoiding the strongly sensational scenes 



436 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

of crimes and passion which render the writings of some women obnoxious 
to censure. To this her popularity is mainly attributable." 

" Marian Harland's " recent novels are of a domestic character, as 
are her numerous novelettes in the " Lady's Book." 

" ' Euby's Husband ' exposes with power and dramatic management the 
evils arising from a hastily contracted marriage between a man who, in the 
best sense of the word, is a gentleman, and a woman who, with some beauty 
and a superficial education, is vulgar, vain, and selfish at heart. The hero, 
Louis Suydam, is introduced as a melancholy, reserved, ambitious young 
student of medicine, whose family have both wealth and aristocratic tastes. 
In consequence of a severe wound from the accidental discharge of his gun, 
while hunting, he falls, for ten days, under the charge and care of the family 
of Nick Slocum, a rude, shiftless, sporting Anak, whose wife — a woman of 
real refinement, long-suffering, and Christian resignation — had eked out of 
their slender means enough to give an education to her daughter. The latter, 
Euby, avails herself of the opportunity to win the disabled young student's 
fancy, and is successful. After a semi-romantic courtship, Louis marries 
her, but secretly, for the fear of the displeasure of his father. During the 
period which intervenes between the marriage and its public avowal, Louis 
suffers the natural consequence of an alliance with a woman inherently coarse 
and mean, and of a perpetual hypocrisy toward his family and the world. 
His sufferings are intensified when, after discovering his wife's unworthiness, 
he meets and falls in love with one who, in refinement, delicate sentiment, 
and every noble quality, is the reverse of his wife. Without following the 
plot, we will merely say that the development of this complicated situation is 
skilfully managed." — "The Galaxy," December, 1868. 



?>^< 



MRS. WILLIAM C. RIVES. 

rnHIS accomplished lady — one of the most distinguished of Amer- 
-L ican ladies — is the widow of the Hon. William Cabell Rives, 
who "was twice United States Minister to France, 1829 to '32 and 
1849 to '53, and United States Senator from Virginia in 1832. He 
was a member of the Confederate Congress ; and died at his home in 
Virginia, April 26th, 1868, — she was born at Castle Hill, Albemarle 
Co., Va., in 1802. 

Mrs. Rives was Miss Judith Page Walker, daughter of Col. Francis 



MRS. WILLIAM C. RIVES. 437 

Walker, a gentleman of ancient descent and large means. She mar- 
ried Mr. Rives when quite young and still under the guidance of Mr. 
Jefferson. She accompanied him to Washington, and later to France, 
where he was sent as Minister. His influence at the time of the July- 
Revolution of 1820 being exercised in behalf of the Orleans family, he 
became a great favorite with the royal household. Mrs. Rives was of 
eminent service to him there, — as everywhere ; — and when her first 
daughter was born, she received the name of Amitie Louise from her 
godmother, the Queen of France. Upon her return home Mrs. Rives 
published her first novel, " Souvenirs of a Residence in Europe," by a 
Lady of Virginia, Philadelphia, 1842 : many pictures in which were 
taken from life, as most of the characters were real personages. " This 
book," (I quote from a review published at the time this work appeared,) 
"is distinguished throughout for its moral and elevated tone. Its 
style, which perhaps in some instances may be rather luxuriant, is 
generally chaste, fluent, and graceful. The first and longest story in 
the volume, ' A Tale of our Ancestors,' is founded, we are told, on 
truth. The scene is first laid in Europe, in the age of Louis XV., but 
is subsequently shifted to our own mountains and valleys. Some of 
the scenes in this tale are exceedingly well depicted, and some of the 
characters, of which there is no lack of variety, are drawn with a 
skilful pencil. Following the ' Tale of our Ancestors,' the authoress 
has given us ' Fragments ' of her own journal in Switzerland and a 
part of Italy; and very acceptable fragments they are. . . . Interwoven 
w r ith the incidents which the authoress has journalized are two tales : 
the 'Soldier's Bride,' and the 'Valley of Goldan.' The volume con- 
cludes by a successful imitation of an old English ballad." 

After some years of happy life on their immense estate, Castle Hill, 
Mr. and Mrs. Rives found themselves once more in Paris, where the 
American Minister was once more called upon to throw the weight of 
his influence in behalf of the new Government of France. The me- 
moirs of that time, still to be written, will show how efficiently he was 
assisted by the rare gifts and the admirable tact of his wife. 

After her second return from Paris, she published a work called 
"Home and Abroad," New York, 1857, — abounding, like her former 
book, with graphic sketches of foreign society and valuable compari- 
sons with the state of things in America. 

Mrs. Rives's deep and earnest religious convictions led her to devote 
much of her time, and occasionally her talents, to efforts in behalf of 



438 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

the church and its faith. Thus she built, entirely by her own exer- 
tions, a beautiful church near her paternal home. 

Since her husband's death, Mrs. Rives has led a quiet but useful life 
on her estate, devoting herself with unabated energy to the duties of 
a Virginia matron, and occasionally visiting her children, who have 
founded new homes at the North and abroad. 

A most useful helpmeet to her distinguished husband, a faithful 
mother, a prominent and yet ever beneficent leader in society, and an 
author of more than ordinary ability and popularity, Mrs. Rives has, 
during her long life, been privileged to exercise a wide-spread, health- 
ful influence like few women in the Republic. 

Mrs. Rives resides at Castle Hill. Her post-office is Cobham 
Station. 

March, 1871. 



MARY TUCKER MAGILL. 

MISS MAGILL gets a love for literature, and a desire to aspire to its 
laurels, by inheritance. Judge St. George Tucker, of Virginia, 
her great-grandfather, was not without acknowledged merit in the 
literary world of his time, and several of his poetical pieces have out- 
lived his generation, — "Days of my Youth," &c, for instance. His 
two sons, Judge Henry St. George Tucker, Miss Magill's grandfather, 
and Judge Beverly Tucker, improved upon the reputation of their 
father; the latter is the author of "George Balcombe," "a bold, 
highly-spirited, and very graceful border story, true to life; a fine 
picture of society and manners on the frontier, animated and full of 
interest." — W. G. Simms. Also of "The Partisan Leader," published 
in 1837, and reprinted in New York and Richmond in 1861 : this is 
a curious anticipative political history. 

St. George Tucker, son of Henry St. George Tucker, and the uncle 
of the subject of this notice, was the author of "Hansford," a successful 
novel, and many poetical pieces of exquisite taste and genius. He 
died during the late war. 

Miss Magill has from early girlhood looked forward to a literary 
life. She weaved stories in childhood. Of a sensitive disposition, she 
never attempted anything of more importance than stories for maga- 



EMILY V. MASON. 439 

zines, which were published under an assumed name, and were received 
with some favor. During the years 1860 to 1865, Miss Magill's whole 
heart was completely absorbed in the stirring events, leaving no room 
from the stern reality to cultivate fancy. "After the war" she 
returned to Winchester, her once beautiful home, to find her house 
sacked and destroyed. Now her pen was called into requisition, and 
she was for several months special correspondent for the New York 
" News." The following fall, Mrs. Magill and her two daughters, of 
whom Mary Tucker Magill is the elder, opened a school at Winchester, 
which for four years has been very successful. 

Last year, Miss Magill wrote " The Holcombes," a story of Virginia 
home life, published recently (1871) by Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia. 
This story is more subservient to the scenes and characters portrayed 
than they are to the story. The author designs to present a history 
of Virginia life in the slave days just anterior to the war. 

This, Miss Magill's first book, is dedicated to "Virginia — my native 
State." 

In "The Holcombes," she presents to view " Virginia in her palmiest 
days, as she was when she first bared her bosom to the sword, and 
opened her gates to present her soil as the battle-field." 
March, 1871. 



>XK< 



MISS EMILY V. MASON. 

MISS MASON is prominent in all noble works, as she has been in 
society, by right of intellectual gifts and charming manners. 
Her parents were Virginians, descended from the best stock in the 
"Old Dominion." Her mother was of the Marshall and Nicholson 
families ; her paternal grandfather and uncle were both United States 
Senators from that' State. Her father, General Mason, removed to 
Kentucky some years after his marriage, and Emily was born in Lex- 
ington. 

" During the war, Miss Mason devoted her energies to active useful- 
ness in the hospitals in Richmond. Her spirit of benevolent enterprise 
survived the war. Since its close, she has worked even more indefati- 



440 LIVING FEMALE WK ITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

gably than ever in the cause of humanity. She has been the benefac- 
tress of Southern orphans, solicitous to provide for them the means of 
education, that they may be enabled in time to earn their own living." * 

Miss Mason collected and arranged " The Southern Poems of the 
War," published by John Murphy & Co., Baltimore, 1867, and a 
second edition, revised and enlarged, was issued in the following year. 
This book was warmly received everywhere, and was the most popular 
of the several collections of the war muse of the South. Part of the 
profits of this volume were dedicated to the noble charity of educating 
the children of fallen Confederate soldiers, and twenty-five have, by 
this means, been provided for. 

"In Miss Mason's collection of 'Southern War Poems,' we have gems 
from nearly all of the poets of the South — the stirring lyrics of 
Randall, the sweet and mournful verses of Father Ryan, the sternly 
defiant songs of Mrs. Warfield, the eloquent appeals of the lamented 
Timrod, the touching lines of Mrs. Preston, poems of joy and songs of 
sorrow, the shouts of triumph, the wailings of despair, the sweet and 
tender grace of Southern women, the chivalrous courage and unpar- 
alleled endurance of the Southern men, are here immortalized in 
melodious numbers which the world ' will not willingly let die,' for 
they commemorate a cause which is eternal." 

Miss Mason's residence is in Baltimore. She has several books in 
preparation; among them, a "Popular Life of General Robert E. 
Lee," is now in the press of J. Murphy & Co., Baltimore. 
1871. 



MARY EUGENIE McKINNE. 

MRS. McKINNE was born in Southampton County, Va. She is 
of Scottish descent. Her father, Capt. Joseph Vick (of the 
family who founded the city of Vicksburg) was a gentleman of high 
standing, both as a soldier and citizen. Her mother was the third 
wife of her father, and quite young enough to have been his daughter. 
Of Capt. Vick's twenty-one children by his three marriages,' Mary, the 
child of his old age, alone survives. Bereft of both her parents at an 
early age, the subject of this notice was adopted into the family of her 
maternal uncle, Mr. John Waddell, of North Carolina, under whose 

* Abridged from "Queens of American Society," by Mrs. E. P. Ellett. 



MARY EUGENIE McKINNE. 441 

fostering care the young orphan developed into a womanhood of 
uncommon loveliness and promise. 

Miss Vick began her career as a writer when very young : at first 
writing for the amusement of the home circle, verses, romances, plays, 
etc. For the composition of plays she displayed a remarkable talent, 
and several of her dramatic pieces were acted on the stage. She con- 
tributed to newspapers and magazines prose and poetry, under noma 
de plume. 

Becoming a wife, Mrs. McKinne made a nest for herself in south 
Alabama; and from her beautiful sylvan home came, through the 
press, now a love story, a fantastic sketch, or a poem, "like music 
upon the waters," or a graphic description of the enchanting springs 
and customs of that beautiful Southern land where Nature is so 
beneficent. 

She began writing for the juvenile world; and thousands of little 
readers have, we trust, been made wiser and better and happier for the 
sweet lessons of love, gentleness, and truth emanating from her pen. As 
a writer for children, she is exceedingly popular with both young and 
old. There is a freshness and naturalness about her little men and 
women peculiarly attractive and charming. 

Mrs. McKinne now resides near Marianna, in the State of Florida. 

March 15th, 1871. . A. W. H. 




56 




^Hpo 



NORTH CAROLINA. 



MARY BAYARD CLARKE. 



BY JUDGE EDWIN G. KEADE. 




NE of the sweetest poets and truest women of America is 
Mrs. Mary Bayard Clarke, a native of Raleigh, North Caro- 
lina. Her prose writings, as well as her poems, are charac- 
terized chiefly by simplicity, power, and naturalness. Hear- 
ing Daniel Webster speak, one 'was apt to feel, " That is just what 
ought to be said on the subject; and I could say it just as he has done." 
The like may truly be said of Mrs. Clarke's poetry : there is no strain- 
ing after effect — no doubling and twisting to make a rhyme — no 
climbing after a sentiment, or ranting over a passion — no gaudy 
dress or want of neat attire. It is just what you would feel ; and just 
what you, or anybody else, would say — as you think. But try it — 
and it will prove to be just what you cannot say. This simplicity and 
power makes her poetry in the parlor what Daniel Webster's speeches 
were in the Senate. 

Mrs. Clarke is a daughter of Thomas P. Devereux, an eminent 
lawyer and large Roanoke planter: her grandmother, Mrs. Frances 
Devereux, a granddaughter of the celebrated logician, Jonathan 
Edwards, President of Princeton College, was a woman of remarkable 
intellectual endowments, and well known in the Presbyterian Church. 
Reared in affluence, thoroughly educated, and highly accomplished, 
the subject of our notice married, at an early age, William J. Clarke, Esq., 
of North Carolina, who had entered the United States Army at the 
beginning of the Mexican war ; and after being brevetted as a major 
for gallant conduct at the battles of the National Bridge, Paso Ovejas, 
and Cerro Gordo, had retired from the army on a pension granted 
him for wounds received in the service of his country, and resumed 
the practice of the law in his native State. 

Her position in society was one of ease and elegance ; and her con- 
tributions to literature were induced by the love of the beautiful and 
442 



MARY BAYARD CLARKE. 443 

intellectual, and by the ease with which she composed, both in prose 
and poetry. Her productions were mere pastimes — the pleasures of 
thought and the scintillations of genius. Her fragile form was soon, 
however, seen by her husband to be drooping : consumption was here- 
ditary in her mother's family ; and, to save her from falling a victim 
to it, he carried her, first to the West Indies, and finally to the salu- 
brious climate of Western Texas, where she resided, with her little 
family, at San Antonio de Bexar, until the beginning of the late war, 
when they returned'to North Carolina, and Major Clarke took com- 
mand of the 24th North Carolina Regiment, and served during the 
whole war as its colonel. The long and " cruel war " brought adver- 
sities in fortune, and then came out all the force of Mrs. Clarke's char- 
acter, the brilliancy of her genius, and the nobleness of her soul, in 
educating her children, sustaining her family, and inspiriting her 
countrymen. Her pen was constantly busy in correspondence, in poe- 
try, and in translations from the French ; in which latter she is con- 
sidered by the best judges — educated Frenchmen — to be particu- 
larly happy. 

Some of her poems were collected and published in a volume called 
"Mosses from a Rolling Stone; or, The Idle Moments of a Busy 
Woman," which was sold for the benefit of the fund for the Stonewall 
Cemetery, in Winchester, Va. ; but much the larger, and, her friends 
say, much the better portion of them have only appeared in the peri- 
odicals of the day. 

What Mrs. Clarke was some few years ago, is very graphically and 
truthfully portrayed in a sketch which appeared not long since, from the 
pen of some unknown admirer who met her in Havana. All her fac- 
ulties are now matured. Not so beautiful, of course, as when younger, 
she is yet far more interesting. Her conversational powers are re- 
markable, and her manners distinguished by their graceful ease and 
playfulness. Sparkling and impulsive, she is also gentle, amiable, 
pious, and industrious beyond her strength. 

In all she has written, there cannot be found a sentiment that is not 
as pure as snow, nor an expression unsuited for the ear of the most 
delicate refinement. Though much of her own history and many of 
her trials are necessarily shadowed forth in her poetry, there is no ap- 
pearance in it of an effort to "serve up her own heart with brain- 
sauce" for the taste of the public. 

" The Mother's Dream," in which she says " conflicting duties wore 



444 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

away her strength and life," though doubtless a page from her own 
experience, speaks directly to the heart of every conscientious mother, 
and is but a leaf from the life of all who, like her, resolve to climb 
the hill of maternal duty, 

" Unmurmuring at the petty round she daily trod, 
But doing what came first, and leaving all to God." 

" My Children " were emphatically her children. It was published 
first in the New Orleans " Picayune," anonymously, and as many as a 
dozen friends, in different parts of the United States, cut it out and sent 
it to her, because it so exactly suited her and her two little ones. 
Who, that knows them, can doubt that she expresses her own feelings, 
when she says, 

" Though many other blessings 
Around my footsteps fall, 
My children and their father 
Are brightest of them all"? 

How beautiful is her description of " the sweet notes of memory : " 

" Like the perfume that lingers where roses are crushed, 
The echo of song when the music is hushed ! " 

And how chaste and poetic the discrimination in " Smiles and Eoses," 
where she says : 

"A smile may be given to many — 
'Tis only of friendship a part; 
But I give not a kiss unto any 
Who has not the love of my heart ! " 

These selections are all from her earlier poems : those written later 
in life have more concentrated force, and more passionate depth of 
feeling, with equal sweetness and simplicity. 

Her lines to General Robert E. Lee are highly poetical and finished ; 
so much is seldom found concentrated and clearly expressed in such 
a short space : 

" You lay your sword with honor down, 
And wear defeat as 't were a crown, 
Nor sit, like Marius, brooding o'er 
A ruin which can rise no more; 
But from your Pavia bear away 
A glory brightening every day " — 



MARY BAYARD CLARKE. 445 

describes General Lee's deportment and conduct since the surrender 
most accurately ; while the closing lines show an appreciation of the 
feelings hidden under his dignified serenity which must have touched 
his heart when he read them : 

"But who can tell how deep the dart 
Is rankling in your noble heart, 
Or dare to pull the robe aside 
Which Caesar draws his wounds to hide?" 

"Must I Forget?" which was by mistake put among the transla- 
tions from the French, is not excelled by anything Byron ever wrote 
for the strong expression of a deep passion ; while " It Might Have 
Been," " Under the Lava," and " Grief," have a depth and force of 
feeling, with a clearness and terseness of expression seldom found in 
the writings of a woman. This is but a tame criticism of what will in 
future be cherished as part of the purest and brightest literature of 
the age ; but space beyond the limits of this article would be needed 
to do justice to the subject. 

The following is a sketch of Mrs. Clarke, taken from a Baltimore 
paper : 

"LA TENELLA. 

" Some years ago, during a ' health -trip to the tropics/ it was my good 
fortune to spend four months in the company of a lady who is now well 
known in Southern literature, not only as ' Tenella,' the nom de plume she 
first adopted, but also by her real name of Mrs. Mary Bayard Clarke. 
Sprightly, intellectual, and remarkable, not only for her easy, graceful man- 
ners, but also for her delicate, fragile beauty, she was the acknowledged 
' queen of society ' in the circle in which she moved. The Spanish Creoles 
are very frank in their admiration of beauty, which they regard as the gift 
of God, not only to the possessor, but to the admirer of it ; and nothing like 
the furore created among them by the blue eyes, fair complexion, masses of 
soft, sunny curls, and clear-cut, intellectual features of this lady can be con- 
ceived of in this country. 

" The first time I ever saw her was at the Tacon Theatre. She was lean- 
ing on the arm of Mr. Gales Seaton, of the ' National Intelligencer/ and 
surrounded by three or four British naval and Spanish army officers, in full 
uniform ; and as the party walked into the private box of the Spanish admi- 
ral, every eye was turned upon them, and a hum of admiration rose from 
the spectators, such as could only be heard, in similar circumstances, from a 
Spanish audience. 

" Shortly after this, I met her at a ball given by the British consul-general 



446 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

at the Aldama Palace, and was presented to her by Mr. Seaton, and, from 
that time, saw her almost daily for the four months during which she 
reigned the acknowledged queen of the small but select circle of English 
and Americans residing in the city of Havana ; increased, as it is every 
winter, by visitors from every part of the United States, English, American, 
and French naval officers, and such other foreigners as speak English. A 
more brilliant circle than it was that winter it would be hard to find any- 
where. 

"But while to casual observers Mrs. Clarke was but the enfant gate of society, 
to those who looked further she was also the highly cultivated, intellectual 
woman. The Honorable Miss Murray, then on her American tour, was 
charmed with her, and said she was the only woman she had met in America, 
who, without being a blue-stocking, was yet thoroughly educated. ' She has 
not an accomplishment/ said that lady, ' beyond her highly cultivated 
conversational powers; but they, with her beauty and graceful manners, 
would render her an ornament to any circle in which she might move.' 

" But the lady-in-waiting of Queen Victoria was mistaken, for Mrs. Clarke 
had two accomplishments rarely found in perfection among ladies : she was 
a bold, fearless, and remarkably graceful horsewoman, and played an ad- 
mirable game of chess. 

" Speaking one day to Mr. Seaton of her quickness, and the felicitous skill 
with which she threw off little jeu d'esprits, in the shape of vers de societe, 
he replied : ' She is capable of better things than she has yet done ; and, if 
she lives long enough, will, I predict, make a name for herself among the 
poets of our country. I may not live to see the noontide of her success, but 
I already discern its dawn.' He did not live to see much more than this 
dawn, but he instigated and suggested much that has brightened that success. 
Walking one day in the Quinta del Obispo with Mrs. Clarke, he said to her, 
' I shall expect a poem from you, describing these triumphs of summer as 
beautifully as you have already described the "Triumphs of Spring."' It 
was not until years after that 'Gan Eden' appeared in the ' Southern Lit- 
erary Messenger : ' and, although my poor friend had long before died of the 
disease with which he was threatened when he uttered these words, I saw the 
effect of them as soon as I read that poem, which is one of the most truthful 
as well as poetic descriptions of the tropical beauties of the ' Isle of Flowers : ' 

' 'T is the Queen of the Antilles 

Seated on her emerald throne, 
Crowned with ever-blooming flowers 

And a beauty all her own. 
With a grace that 's truly regal, 

Sits she in her lofty seat, 
Watching o'er the subject islands 

In the ocean at her feet. 



MAKY BAYARD CLARKE. 447 

' While its waters, blue as heaven., 
Laughing, leap upon her breast, 
Where all nature ever seemeth 

For a happy bridal drest. 
Truly is it called " G-an Eden," 

'Tis a garden of delight; 
But, alas ! the serpent's trailing 
O'er the beauty casts a blight.' 

" All can realize the beauty of these lines ; but none but one who has seen 
' a stately ceyba-tree ' in ' the poisonous embraces ' of a ' deadly Jagua 
Chacho ' — a creeping vine of exquisite beauty, which destroys all life in the 
tree to which it clings — can fully realize the beauty as well as the force of 
the simile which follows it. Neither can justice be done to the verse, 

' Where the cucullos at even — 

Insect watchmen of the night — 

On the sleeping leaves and flowers 

Shed their emerald-tinted light,' 

by one who has never seen the long files of watchmen, each with his lantern 
lighted, start from the Plaza, and scatter over the city of Havana just as the 
short tropic twilight begins, nor marked the beautiful, pale, green-tinted 
glow cast by the Cuban fire-flies — cucullos — over the object on which they 
light. 

" Several of the poems in Mrs. Clarke's last book, ' Mosses from a Boiling 
Stone/ show, to one intimate with him, that Mr. Seaton, who was a man of 
rare taste and great originality of thought, had at this time much influence in 
developing the powers which he saw were unknown in their full force to their 
possessor. Let me not, however, be understood as detracting from Mrs. 
Clarke's originality by this remark. It is the attribute of art to suggest infi- 
nitely more than it expresses, and of genius to catch suggestions, no matter 
from what source, and' reproduce them stamped with its own unmistakable 
mark ; and one of the chief beauties of Mrs. Clarke's poetry lies in her 
ability to invest with a new and poetic beauty the common things of every- 
day life. Who can read without emotion those exquisite lines of hers, ' The 
Eain upon the Hills'? or that beautiful household-poem 'The Mother's 
Dream ' ? She is as remarkable for strength as for richness of imagery : there 
is nothing weak in any of her poems, and some passages of great force and 
depth of feeling. Take, for instance, 'Aphrodite' and 'It Might Have 
Been : ' when I read them, I felt that Mr. Seaton's prophecy was fulfilled, 
and she had indeed ' made herself a name among the poets of our land,' and 
was a literary as well as a social queen. 

" I cannot better close this short and imperfect sketch than by giving you 
an account of the reading of her magnificent poem, ' The Battle of Manassas,' 
among the prisoners of Fort Warren* Mr. S. Teakle Wallis, of Baltimore, 
was the first to get the paper in which it was published. It was the hour 



448 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

for exercise, and most of the Confederate prisoners were in the court. Bush- 
ing down among them, Mr. Wallis jumped on a barrel and exclaimed, 
1 Boys, I have something to read to you.' From the animation of his 
manner, and the sparkle of his eye, they knew it was something they would 
like, and instantly gathered around him, when he read, with all the emphasis 
of a poet who feels every word that he utters : 

'Now glory to the Lord of Hosts ! oh, bless and praise His Name ! 
For he has battled in our cause, and brought our foes to shame. 
And honor to our Beauregard, who conquered in His might, 
And for our children's children won Manassas' bloody fight. 
Oh ! let our thankful prayers ascend, our joyous praise resound, 
For God — the G-od of victory — our untried flag hath crowned.' 

" Before he had half finished reading there was not one of those strong men 
who did not shed tears ; and when he had finished, such a shout went up from 
them that the guards came running out to see if there was not an outbreak 
among the prisoners. 

"I have never seen Mrs. Clarke since we parted on the 'Isle of Flowers,' 
but I have watched her literary career ever since, and eagerly read all the 
poems under the signature of ' Tenella.' Latterly, she has turned her at- 
tention more to prose than poetry, and is a contributor to ' The Land we 
Love,' as well as several other periodicals. Her 'Aunt Abby the Irrepres- 
sible,' in the first-mentioned magazine, has rendered her name a household 
word among all its readers. After several years spent in Texas, she returned 
to her native State, and at present resides in Xorth Carolina. She has won 
considerable reputation by her translations from the French, and some of 
her translations of Victor Hugo's poems have been republished in England, 
where they attracted attention by the beauty of the rhythm into which they 
are so truthfully rendered. 

But her ' Battle of Manassas,' ' Battle of Hampton Roads,' and her 
' Rebel Sock,' together with other of her war poems, have given her a 
home reputation which renders her poems ' household words ' by many a 
Southern hearth." 

Mrs. Clarke seldom signs .her name to her prose articles. Shortly 
after her return from Havana, she wrote " Reminiscences of Cuba," 
for the "Southern Literary Messenger," 1855. She translated from the 
French for a Confederate publication, " Marguerite ; or, Two Loves," 
and has published considerably under the pseudonym of "Stuart 
Leigh." " General Sherman in Raleigh," " The South Expects Every 
Woman to do her Duty," and other sketches, appearing in the " Old 
Guard," Xew York, with " The Divining Rod," in Demorest's " Monthly " 
in the fall of 1867, and a novelette W Peterson's Magazine," and " Social 



MARY BAYARD CLARKE. 449 

Reminiscences of Noted North-Carolinians," appearing in " The Land 
we Love" — beside contributing as editress to the " Literary Pastime," 
a weekly journal published in Richmond — show she is an elegant 
prose writer. 

In 1854, Mrs. Clarke published "Wood-Notes," a collection of North 
Carolina verse. In 1871, an elegant volume entitled " Clytieand Zenobia ; 
or, The Lily and the Palm : a Poem." She resides in Newberne, N. C. 
1871. 



APHRODITE. 

'T was in the spring-time of the world, 
The sun's red banners were unfurled, 
And slanting rays of golden light 
Just kissed the billows tipped with white, 
And through the waters' limpid blue 
Flashed down to where the sea-weed grew, 
While rainbow hues of every shade 
Across the restless surface played. 
Then, as the rays grew stronger still, 
They sought the sea-girt caves to fill, 
And sparkled on the treasures rare 
That all unknown were hidden there. 
Roused by their warm, electric kiss, 
The ocean thrilled with wak'ning bliss : 
Its gasping sob and heaving breast 
The power of inborn life confest ; 
But, though their waves were tossed ashore, 
Upon their crests no life they bore. 

Deep hidden in its deepest cave, 

Unmoved by current, wind, or wave, 

A purple shell, of changing shade, 

By nature's careful hand was laid : 

The clinging sea-weed, green and brown, 

With fibrous grasp still held it down 

Despite the waters' restless flow ; 

But when they caught that deep'ning glow, 

They flushed with crimson, pink, and gold, 

And from the shell unclasped their hold 

Its shadowy bonds thus drawn aside, 

It upward floated on the tide ; 

But still its valves refused to yield, 

And still its treasure was concealed. 



57 



450 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Close shut upon the waves it lay 

Till warmly kissed by one bright ray ; 

When, lo I its pearly tips unclose, 

As ope the petals of the rose, 

And pure and fresh as morning dew 

Fair Aphrodite rose to view. 

First — like a startled child amazed — 

On earth and air and sea she gazed; 

Then shook the wavy locks of gold 

That o'er her neck and bosom rolled, 

Loosened the cestus on her breast, 

'Gainst which her throbbing heart now prest ; 

For, ah ! its clasp could not restrain 

The new-born life that thrilled each vein, 

Flushed to her rosy fingers' tips, 

And deeply dyed her parted lips, 

Spread o'er her cheek its crimson glow, 

And tinged her heaving bosom's snow. 

Conscious of beauty and its power, 
She owns the influence of the hour — 
Instinct with life, attempts to rise : 
Her quick-drawn breath melts into sighs, 
Her half-closed eyes in moisture swim, 
And languid droops each rounded limb; 
With yielding grace her lovely head 
Sinks back . upon its pearly bed, 
Where changing shades of pink attest 
The spot her glowing cheek hath prest. 
There all entranced she silent lay, 
Borne on 'mid showers of silvery spray, 
Which caught the light and backward fell 
In sparkling diamonds round her shell. 
Thus, wafted by the western breeze, 
Cytherea's flowery isle she sees : 
Its spicy odors round her float, 
And thither glides her purple boat; 
And, when its prow had touched the land, 
There stepped upon the golden sand, 
With life and love and beauty warm, 
A perfect woman's matchless form. 

The tale is old, yet always new, 
To every heart which proves it true : 
The limpid waters of the soul 
In snow-crowned waves of feeling roll, 



MARY BAYARD CLARKE. 451 

Until love's soft, pervading light 
Has into color kissed the white, 
And in its deep recesses shown 
Eich treasures to itself unknown — 
Though many restless sob and sigh, 
Nor ever learn the reason why; 
While others wake with sudden start 
To feel the glow pervade their heart, 
Flash down beneath its surface swell 
And shine on Passion's purple shell, 
Change to the rainbow's varying hue 
The ties it may not rend in two ; 
Till doubts and fears, which held it fast, 
Beneath love's glow relax their grasp : 
Slowly the network fades away, 
Like fleecy clouds at opening day, 
And Passion, woke by warmth and light, 
In deep'ning shades springs into sight. 

But man the shell too often holds 
Nor sees the beauty it unfolds ; 
Its close-shut valves refuse to part, 
And show the depths of woman's heart. 
And tossing on life's billows high, 
The purple shell unoped may lie, 
Till cast on Death's cold, rocky shore, 
Its life and longing both are o'er. 
But if Love's warm, entrancing light 
Shall kiss the parting lips aright, 
And wake to life the beauty rare 
Which nature's self hath hidden there, 
Beneath his soft, enraptured smile 
'T is wafted to the flowery isle, 
And Aphrodite steps ashore 
A perfect woman — nothing more. 



GRIEF. 

"A great calamity is as old as the trilobites an hour after it has happened. It stains 
backward, through all the leaves we have turned over in the book of life, before its blot 
of tears, or of blood, is dry on the page we are turning." — Autocrat of the Breakfast 
Table. 

'Twas such a grief — too deep for tears — 
Which aged my heart far more than years ; 



452 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

How old it seemed, e'en when 't was new, 
Backward it stained life's pages through, 
And, ere another leaf I turned, 
On all my past its impress burned. 
My happy days a mock'ry seemed — 
I had not lived, but only dreamed ; 
And then, when first I wished it done, 
Life seemed to me but just begun : 
Begun in bitter unbelief 
' That Time could dull the edge of grief— 
Could give me back my hope and faith, 
Or bring me any good but death. 
'Twas but a moment; yet to me 
It seemed a whole eternity ! 
I felt how gray my heart had grown ; 
Its plastic way was changed to stone 
When Mis'ry there her signet set, 
Impressing lines which linger yet. 
In each fresh leaf of life I find 
The shadow of this grief behind ; 
For though the page at first appears 
Unsullied by the mark of tears, 
They'll blister through before 'tis read: 
A real grief is never dead ! 
Its iron finger, stern and dark, 
Leaves on the face and heart its mark, 
As quickly cut — as plainly told 
As that the die stamps on the gold; 
Though read aright, perchance, alone 
By those who kindred grief have known — 
Like Masons' signs, which seem but nought, 
Although with deepest meaning fraught. 
The grief which kills is silent grief; 
For words, like tears, will bring relief: 
Husband and wife from each conceal 
The wounds which are too deep to heal. 
But, oh! when Hope and Faith seem dead, 
While many a page must yet be read, 
And in despair the heart doth sigh 
And wish with them it too might die, 
Remember that no night's so dark 
But we can see some little spark, 
And patient wait till dawning day 
Shall its red line of light display : 



MARY BAYARD CLARKE. 453 

For if we keep our love alive, 

Our hope and faith will both revive. 

Thus, as life's ladder we ascend, 

Our hope shall in fruition end — ■ 

Our faith be lost in sight at length — 

Our charity increase in strength ; 

And grief, which stamps the heart and mind, 

But coin the gold Love has refined. 



LIFE'S FIG-LEAVES. 

Life's fig-leaves ! Tell me, are not they 

The outside beauties of our way, 

The pleasant things beneath whose shade 

Our inner — spirit -life — is laid? 

I own they oft give promise fair 

Of fruit which never ripens there ; 

For though we seek with earnest hope 

Some tiny bud that yet may ope, 

'Tis all in vain — for fruit or flower 

The tree has not sufficient power. 

And still the earnest spirit grieves, 

Which, seeking fruit, finds only leaves. 

When such I meet, it calls to mind 

The Saviour's warning to mankind: 

"The time for fruit was not yet nigh." 

Then wherefore must the fig-tree die ? 

Nature demanded leaves alone; 

But yet He said, in solemn tone, 

"Let no more fruit upon thee grow," 

That He to us this truth might show.: 

All life for some good end is given, 

And should bear fruit on earth for heaven; 

Its leaves and blossoms go for nought, 

Unless they are with promise fraught: 

No buds for fruit the fig-tree bore, 

Hence it was blighted evermore, 

And unto man still mutely saith, 

A barren life is living death. 

And so the parable should teach 

That soul which does not upward reach. 



MAEY MASON. 

MRS. MASON is the wife of Rev. Dr. Mason, of Raleigh. She has 
written several books for children. She is entirely self-taught, 
and her works are remarkable from that fact, besides possessing con- 
siderable literary merit. She cuts cameos and moulds faces ; and, for 
a self-taught artist, her "likenesses" are excellent. Had she made 
" sculpture " a study from early youth, we warrant that the name of 
Mary Mason would have been as familiar to the world as is that of 
"Harriet Hosmer." 

A head of General Lee, cut in cameo by her, is said to be exquisite. 

She has recently published a book entitled " The Young Housewife's 
Counsellor and Friend." Philadelphia, 1871. This book will give 
directions in every department of household duty ; with ample receipts 
of the choicest kinds tried, and improved by Mrs. Mason, and very 
many of them originating with herself. 



»€<c 



CORNELIA PHILLIPS SPENCER. 

MRS. SPENCER is a daughter of Prof. Phillips, of the University, 
and resides at Chapel Hill, North Carolina. She contributed a 
series of articles to the " Watchman," a weekly journal published in 
New York, in 1866, by Rev. Dr. Deems, of North Carolina. These 
articles were published in a volume, entitled "The Last Ninety Days 
of the War in North Carolina." This volume is a narrative of events 
in detail of the war, and personal sketches, showing, says a would-be 
facetious reviewer, " how the people of the Old North State ate, drank, 
and were clothed ; and telling how the fowls were foully appropriated 
by vile marauders." The last chapter of the book is devoted to a his- 
tory of the University of North Carolina. 

1868. 

454 



FANNY MUKDAUGH DOWNING. 

BY H. W. HTJSTED, ESQ. 

HIGH blood runs in the veins of this gifted lady, and she came 
honestly by the talents for which she is so eminently distinguished. 
She was born in Portsmouth, Virginia, and her literary life commenced 
in North Carolina, in 1863. The Old North State awards to Virginia 
the honor of her birth, but cannot waive claim to her literary labors. 

She is the daughter of the late Hon. John W. Murdaugh, a dis- 
tinguished name in the Old Dominion. She was married, in 1851, 
to Charles W. Downing, Esq., of Florida, and at that time its Secretary 
of State ; and she is blessed in four bright and beautiful children. 

Another writer has said of her, and said truly : " Her eyes are black," 
(they are large and lustrous too,) " her hair of a magnificent, glossy 
blackness," (and a glorious flood of hair it is ! ) " her carriage stately, 
queen-like, and graceful, and in conversational powers she has few 
equals." 

Her health is extremely delicate, but her spirits are always bright, 
and her heart brave and buoyant. 

Many of her works are composed while too weak to leave her bed ; 
and a jolly comedy of three acts, called " Nobody Hurt," was thus 
dashed off in ten hours. Daniel Webster has been called " a steam- 
engine in breeches ; " but Daniel was a man, almost as strong in 
body as he was in mind. Mrs. Downing, fragile as she is, has per- 
formed an amount of intellectual literary labor which may well entitle 
her to be saluted as (with reverence be it spoken) a steam-engine in 
crinoline. When she began to write for the public, which she did with 
the nom de plume of " Viola," she announced her intention in a letter 
to a friend in these words : 

" I shall write first to see if I can write; then for money, and then 
for fame ! " 

She has proved to the perfect satisfaction of the court and jury by 
which her merits were tried that she " can write," and write well. 
At present, she says, she is in the second stage of her programme ; 
and, in catering to the general public taste, is compelled to bow to its 

455 



456 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

decrees, in instances where her purer Southern taste would suggest a 
far different and less sentimental style. 

One of these days, we trust the land we love will be able to fos- 
ter, cherish, and pay for a literature of its own, and then our authors 
may write at the same time for money and fame. This one of them, 
in yielding to stern necessity and writing for money, has also achieved 
ample fame. 

Mrs. Downing's first publication was a poem entitled " Folia Au- 
tumni," and its success was so great that it was rapidly followed by 
numerous other poetical effusions, most of which have a religious tinge, 
and seem the breathings of a subdued and pure spirit. They are all 
remarkable for musical rhythm, and the easy and graceful flow of feel- 
ings which can never be spoken so well as in the language of song. 

Among the best of these are her " Egomet Ipse," a terrible heart- 
searcher ; " Faithful unto Death," full of a wild and nameless pathos ; 
and " Desolate," which is not exceeded by any elegiac poem in the 
language. As a specimen of her minor poems, we select 

SUNSET MUSINGS. 

Love of mine, the day is done — 
All the long, hot summer day ; 
In the west, the golden sun 
Sinks in purple clouds away; 
Nature rests in soft repose, 
Not a zephyr rocks the rose, 
Not a ripple on the tide, 
And the little boats, that glide 
Lazily along the stream, 
Flit like shadows in a dream. 
Not one drooping leaf is stirred; 
Bee, and butterfly, and bird 
Silence keep. Above, around 
Hangs a stillness so profound, 
That the spirit, awe-struck, shrinks, 
As of Eden days it thinks, 
Half expectant here to see 
The descending Deity I 

Love of mine, when life's fierce sun 

To its final setting goes, 
Its terrestrial journey run, 

Varied course of joys and woes, 



FANNY MUKDAUGH DOWNING. 457 

May there come a quiet calm, 
Bringing on its wings a balm 
To our hearts, which aching feel 
"Sorrow here has set its seal!" 
May a stillness soft as this 
Soothe our souls in purest bliss, 
Till the worry and the strife 
Of this fever we call life, 
With its pain and passion cease, 
And we rest in perfect peace. 
Love of mine, may we behold 
Eden's visitant of old, 
When our last breath dies away, 
By us at the close of day I 

These poems were followed by " Nameless," a novel of merit, filled 
with sprightly descriptions and delineations of character, but which 
was, from some unexplained reason, too suddenly crowded to a close, 
before its plot could be evolved and completed. It is said to have been 
hastily written in ten days, as a proof whether or not she could write 
prose. She had already written good poetry which was appreciated 
and applauded, and her next venture was in prose fiction. " Tentanda 
via est," quoth Mrs. Downing, and spread her trial wings. This trial 
proved the existence of high power, which has since been wonderfully 
improved, developed, and matured in her excellent novels, " Perfect 
through Suffering " and " Florida." Then came a series of poems of a 
sterner sort, which were deemed by some to be just a trifle rebellious, 
but which found a responsive feeling deep in the hearts of thousands 
of true men, who are not willing to wear chains without giving them 
an occasional shake. Of this style are " Confederate Gray," " Holly 
and Cypress," "Prometheus Vinctus," "Memorial Flowers," "Our 
President," " Two Years Ago," " Sic Semper Tyrannis," a majestic 
lyric, which thrills each Virginian heart to the core, and glorious little 
" Dixie," which stirs to its fountains every Southern soul, and teaches it 

"To live for Dixie! Harder part! 
To stay the hand — to still the heart — 
To seal the lips, enshroud. the past — 
To have no future — all o'ercast — 
To knit life's broken threads again, 
And keep her mem'ry pure from stain — 
This is to live for Dixie!" 
58 



458 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

In very playfulness, and as if to show her great diversity of talent 
and her surprising power of writing by antagonism instead of sympa- 
thy, and conceiving what could have only existed with her by the aid 
of a most lively and exuberant fancy, she has written some of the 
most musical and genial poems of love and wine since the grapestone 
choked the old Teian bard. 

It may be said of her as of the celebrated French authoress, that 
she " writes >by her imagination, and lives by her judgment." In 
truth, she seems to rejoice in a sort of " double life " of her own, and 
to sport ad lib. in whichever she pleases. One is the life common to 
us all ; the other, such as poetical fancy alone can build up and people 
with its own bright and beautiful creations, and which she has de- 
scribed in her poem, " The Realm of Enchantment." 

Mrs. Downing's home is in Charlotte, N. C. 

January, 1869. 



VIRGINIA DURANT COVINGTON. 

MRS. COVINGTON is a native of Marion, South Carolina. Her 
home is now Rockingham, Richmond County, North Carolina. 
During the late war, Mrs. Covington made her debut as a writer in the 
" Southern Field and Fireside," published at Augusta, Ga., as " Fabian." 
Since that time she has been a frequent contributor to Southern peri- 
odicals, under the assumed names of " Casper," " Popinack," and under 
her own name. She has published enough to fill several large volumes. 
Her most ambitious production appeared serially in the " XIX Cen- 
tury," a Charleston magazine, (1870,) entitled "Morna Elverley; or, 
Outlines of Life." We are not able to give lengthy extracts, and a 
brief one would not do justice to the writer. The work will probably 
appear in a volume. 

1871. 



MKS. MARY AYER MILLER, 

(Luola.) 

THE subject of this sketch was born in Fayetteville, North Carolina, 
but on the death of her father, General Henry Ayer, removed 
with her mother, when only eight years old, to Lexington, North 
Carolina, for the purpose of being educated by her uncle, the Rev. 
Jesse Rankin, a divine of the Presbyterian Church, who had a clas- 
sical school at that place. 

She received the same education given to the boys of her uncle's 
school, which was preparatory for the University of North Carolina, 
and began as early as her fourteenth year to show signs of the poetic 
talent which she has since cultivated with success. She married 
early a young lawyer, Mr. Willis M. Miller, who gave promise of 
making a reputation at the Bar, but abandoned his profession about 
a year after his marriage, and commenced studying for the Pres- 
byterian ministry. This change in the plan of his life, after taking 
on himself the cares of a family, involved a change in his style of 
living, which drew his wife almost entirely from literary to domestic 
pursuits, as his salary, after being licensed to preach, was too small 
to allow much leisure to the mother of his rapidly increasing family. 
Consequently, her pen was laid aside for the needle just when her 
poems, under the signature of " Luola," were beginning to attract 
attention by the smoothness of their flow and the purity and tender- 
ness of their sentiment. But the spirit of song was latent in her heart, 
and burst forth, from time to time, in little gushes, which kept her 
memory alive in the hearts of those who had already begun to appre- 
ciate her poetry. In a letter to a friend, she says : " I have never 
made the slightest effort for popularity, but set my little songs afloat 
as children do their paper boats : if they had sail and ballast enough, 
to float ; if not, to sink." 

Some have sunk ; for, like most women who write con amove, and 
not for publication, she does not always give her poems the after crit- 
ical supervision of the scholar, but is content to throw them off with 
the easy rapidity of the poet. 



460 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

But many of them show the fire of genius ; and, like the love-boats 
of the Hindoo girls on the Ganges, cast a light on the waters as they 
float down the stream of Time, and all are distinguished by some 
grace which touches the heart, or pleases the fancy for the moment. 

As a writer for children, Mrs. Miller has been very successful. The 
Presbyterian Board of Publication has issued several of her works as 
Sunday-school books ; and her poems in the youth's department of the 
"North Carolina Presbyterian," and the "Central Presbyterian/' pub- 
lished in Richmond, Virginia, have rendered her a favorite among the 
little ones, who have as keen an appreciation of what is suited to their 
taste and capacity as older readers have of what pleases them ; and 
such happy conceits as that of " Linda Lee " speak directly, not only 
to their fancy, but also to their hearts. 

Mrs. Miller resides at present in Charlotte, North Carolina, writing 
occasionally for publication, but as often carrying her poems for days 
in her memory, until she can steal time from the duties and cares of a 
wife and mother to commit them to paper. 

A few of her poems are preserved in " Wood Notes," a collection of 
North Carolina poetry made by Mrs. Mary Bayard Clarke, and pub- 
lished in 1854 ; but most of them have appeared only in the news- 
papers. 

1868. M. B. C. 



MRS. SARAH A. ELLIOTT 

IS the author of " Mrs. Elliott's Housewife," containing practical 
receipts in cookery and valuable suggestions for young house- 
keepers. In one volume, 12mo. Published by Hurd & Houghton, 
New York, 1870. 

This is an excellent collection of practical receipts in cookery, nearly 
all of which have been tested and approved by the author, a well- 
known lady of Oxford, North Carolina. 

1871. 



FRANCES C. FISHER. 

CHRISTIAN REID," the author of " Valerie Aylmer," a novel. 
New York, 1870. 

"Valerie Aylmer," the first book of Miss Fisher, written for amuse 
ment, proved the most successful first effort of any Southern writer. 

Miss Fisher is the eldest daughter of Col. Charles F. Fisher, who 
lost his life on the battle-field of Manassas. She is a native of Salisbury, 
N. C, which is her home. * 

She has recently published, in "Appleton's Journal," "Morton 
House," a story of Southern life of thirty years ago. 

From a criticism of " Valerie Aylmer," by Mr. T. C. De Leon, in 
the " Mobile Register," I quote : 

" Since the older novelists of America left the scene, — since Hawthorne, 
Cooper, Simms, and their peers, made the lighter part of our literature 
respectable, — the production of home-made works of fiction has dwindled 
into a mere farce. Since before the war, the novels by American authors 
that have attracted great attention and enforced respectful criticism can be 
counted on the fingers of one hand. Three of these works have been of 
Southern birth. The last of the trio is ' Valerie Aylmer ;' and no work of 
the day has called forth more general, and apparently more honest, criticism. 
And the gross result of this has been highly commendatory, notwithstanding 
the fact that the work is plainly from the hand of a woman, undoubtedly a 
Southern woman, and almost as perceptibly an untried one in that most diffi- 
cult field she has chosen — character romance ; for ' Valerie Aylmer ' depends 
for its power far less upon plot than it does upon character drawing. In the 
story itself there is little novelty of construction or development. The heroine, 
a Southern Creole, is about to lose a fortune, expected from her grandfather, 
through the unlooked-for appearance of Maurice Darcy, a cousin, to whose 
parents the rich grandfather had done great wrong. In his reparation, M. 
Vacquant strives to combine justice and inclination by * making a match ' be- 
tween Valerie and Maurice. Upon this hinges the whole story. Noble, 
strong, and of iron will that knows no yielding, even to powerful urging from 
his own heart, Darcy spurns the fortune and the wife, on suspicion of the 
latter's falsity. Valerie, proud, and with strength to suffer, though not to 
resist, the effects upon her physical and moral nature, separates from Darcy, 
and eats her own heart in silence, until accident, and the patient endurance of 
his crippled brother, Gaston, melts her resolve, and she goes forth to seek him 
in the midst of the Maximilian troubles in Mexico. Such is the idea of the 

461 



462 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

work ; and it is well carried out by many characters, some of them too sketchy 
to make deep impression, and all of them rather types of their class than em- 
phasized photographs of individuals. Valerie herself is perhaps the most 
detailed picture ; and she is the true Southern girl that buds into womanhood 
under our passion-producing sun, with the dangerous nourishment of flattery 
and full freedom of action. Superficial pride, reckless love of power, and 
carelessness of result, almost cover up the true womanhood, and possibility 
of deep, enduring, womanly love in her heart. Time and trouble kill the 
dangerous weeds, and bring the real flower into the one light which can 
make it — even amid the ruins of her power and her happiness, as it seems — 

' Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.' 

" Dealing with people of wealth and fashion, and of the highest refinement, 
the story carries us from Louisiana to Baltimore ; then, rather unfortunately, 
we think, to the south of France; and back, for the denouement, to Havana. 
In all its scenes, sensation is never introduced ; and the reaching after dra- 
matic effect, naturally weak in the unpractised hand, is ever subordinated to 
good taste. The style is pure, clear, and free from most affectations of a 
young — especially of a young female — writer ; and the absence of pedantry 
is refreshing in promise of a vigor that can but grow in such good soil into 
a brilliant future. The sentiment is strongly Southern ; but it never hurries 
our author into forgetfulness that the war is over ; but its history is not yet 
ready. On the whole, the work is one of graceful and pleasant description ; 
not without rare strength in character outlining, and with promise — when 
time shall have steadied the hand — of powerful shading in the most difficult 
of society picturing." 

The New York " Evening Post " reviews the book : 

'"Valerie A ylmer' is undeniably quite charming; the plot interests and 
the style delights us ; there is much excellence in its dramatic construction, 
and in its delineation of character, and, as a literary work, it is altogether 
worthy of praise. ' Christian Eeid/ the pseudonymous author, betrays 
on almost every page a wide acquaintance with literature; not that en- 
cyclopaedic pedantry which is so wearisomely manifested by certain popular 
novelists, and which ranges from the Talmud to Tennyson, but an easy 
familiarity with the best authors, and a love for whatever in them is pure 
and lovely and of good report. Many passages there are that run un- 
consciously into the earnestness of true eloquence, but we see no deliberate 
attempts at ' fine writing,' and we are never let fall from the clouds by a 
helpless anti-climax. No reader of 'Valerie Aylmer,' we are sure, will lay 
down the book without sharing in our own desire to hear from 'Christian 
Reid' again." 



SOUTH CAROLINA 



SUE PETIGRU KING. 




RS. S. P. KING has been complimented by being called the 
" female Thackeray of America." She is a native of South 
Carolina — a daughter of the late Hon. James L. Petigru, 
a prominent lawyer of Charleston. She was early married 
to Mr. Henry King, a lawyer, and son of Judge Mitchell King, of 
Charleston. Her husband lost his life in defence of his native city 
during the late war. 

Mrs. King's first book was " Busy Moments of an Idle Woman," 
this was followed by " Lily." The former was successful, and both 
were pictures of society. She collected a series of tales she had writ- 
ten for " Russell's Magazine," called " Crimes that the # Law does not 
Reach," to which she added a longer story, " The Heart History of a 
Heartless Woman," published originally in the " Knickerbocker Maga- 
zine," and, under the title of " Sylvia's World," it was published by 
Derby & Jackson, New York, (1860.) This was the most popular of 
Mrs. King's books, although her last work, published during the war 
in the " Southern Field and Fireside," and afterward in pamphlet 
form, entitled " Gerald Gray's Wife," is her chef-d'oeuvre. The char- 
acters in this novel are real people, breathing Charleston air, and were 
immediately recognized by the elite in Charleston society. We know 
of no book or writer that we can compare Mrs. King to. She is highly 
original, witty, satirical, and deeply interesting. Her writings are all 
pictures of society. It is said that her " Heartless Woman of the 
World " is herself. In society, Mrs. King was always surrounded by 
a group, who listened with interest to her brilliant flow of conversation. 
She could talk for hours without tiring her hearers with her sparkling 
scintillations. Repartee, as may be imagined from her books, is her 
forte. When William Makepeace Thackeray lectured in this country, 
and met Mrs. King, he said to her in a brusque manner: "Mrs. King, 
I am agreeably disappointed in you ; I heard you were the fastest 

463 



464 LIVING FEMALE WEI TEES OF THE SOUTH. 

woman in America, and I detest fast women." She replied: "And I 
am agreeably surprised in you, Mr. Thackeray ; for I heard you were 
no gentleman." 

Mrs. King is below the medium height, fair; brilliant, variable eyes, 
black and gray and blue in turn; hair dark, and worn banded across 
a brow like her father's, high and broad, rarely seen in a woman; lips 
never at rest, showing superbly white teeth ; hands and feet perfect ; 
arms, bust, and shoulders polished ivory, and yet withal not beautiful 
as a whole ; .slightly lisping accent ; and dress so artistic and ultra- 
^fashionable that nature seemed buried in flowers. 

Mrs. King despises foolish sentimentalism, and shows up human 
vice in all of her books. All of her characters are true to nature. 
Bertha St. Clair, who is one of the dramatis personce in " Sylvia's 
World," and also in " Gerald Gray's Wife," is an exquisite portraiture. 
In the latter the characters are,, as we have mentioned, from life — the 
false Gerald Gray still breathes the air of Charleston. That piece of 
insipidity, or "skim -milk, soft Cissy Clare," is strikingly true to nature, 
as are pompous Mr. Clare, sturdy old Jacob Desborough, scheming 
Phillis, and the gallant Josselyn. 

The transforming power of love, as displayed in the metamorphosis 
of plain Ruth Desborough to beautiful Ruth Grey, is very charmingly 
wrought out. 

Mrs. King has published nothing since the close of the war ; but 
shortly after the downfall of the Confederacy, she gave dramatic read- 
ings in various parts of the North, and is, we believe, now residing in 
Washington City. 

A LOVERS' QUARREL. 

There was not a more beautiful avenue of trees in all the world than that 
which led to the front entrance of Oaklevel. They were very old — they 
met overhead, and enlaced themselves with wreaths of moss ; the sunlight 
came flickering through the branches, and fell stealthily and tremblingly 
upon the clean, smooth ground ; little heaps of dead leaves lay here and 
there, scattered by each breath of the December breeze, and forming their 
tiny mounds in fresh places as the wind trundled them along. 

On a fine, bright morning, some years since, two persons were slowly pacing 
up and down this grand, majestic walk. They were both young, and both 
were handsome. She was blonde, and he a dark, grave-looking man. 

"Nelly, I don't like flirts." 

" Yes, you do — you like me, don't you ? " 

" I don't like flirting." 



SUE PETIGEU KING. 4(35 

" What do you call flirting? If I am to be serious, and answer your ques- 
tions, and admit your reproofs and heed them, pray begin by answering me 
a little. Where and when do I flirt ? " 

"Everywhere, and at all times." 

" Be more particular, if you please. Name, sir, name ! " 

" I am not jesting, Nelly. Yesterday, at that picnic, you talked in a 
whisper to John Ford, you wore Ned Laurens's flowers stuck in your belt- 
ribbon, you danced two waltzes with that idiot, Percy Forest, and you 
sat for a full hour Ute a tete with Walter James, and then rode home with 

him. I wish he had broken his neck, him ! " and a low-muttered curse 

ended the catalogue. 

" If he had broken his neck, very probably he would have cracked mine; so, 
thank you ; and please, Harry, don't swear : it is such an ungentlemanly 
habit, I wonder that you should have it. And now for the list of my errors 
and crimes. The mysterious whisper to John Ford was to ask him if he 
would not invite Miss Ellis to dance ; I had noticed that no one had yet 
done so. You gave me no flowers, although your sister's garden is full of 
them this week ; so I very naturally wore Ned Laurens's galanterie, in the 
shape of half a dozen rosebuds. Percy Forest may be a goose, but he 
waltzes, certainly, with clever feet; one of those waltzes I had offered early 
in the day to you, and you said you preferred a polka. Walter James is an 
old friend of mine, and, for the matter of that, of yours too. We talked very 
soberly : I think that his most desperate speech was the original discovery 
that I have pretty blonde ringlets, and when he falls in love, it shall be with 
a woman who has curls like mine. You best know whether papa allows me 
to drive with you since our accident : my choice lay between a stuffy, stupid 
carriage, full of dull people, and a nice, breezy drive in an open wagon, with 
a good, jolly creature like Walter, whom you and I know to be, despite his 
compliments to my Eve-like coloring, eperdument amoureaux of Mary Turner's 
dark beauty. Now, Harry, have you not been unreasonable ? " 

" How can I help being so, Nelly, darling, when I am kept in this state of 
misery?" answered Harry, whose frowning brow had gradually smoothed 
itself into a more placable expression. " What man on earth could patiently 
endure seeing the woman he adores free to be sought by every one — feeling 
himself bound to her, body and soul, and yet not being able to claim her in 
the slightest way — made to pass his life in solitary wretchedness because an 
old lady and gentleman are too selfish — " 

" Hush, hush, Harry ! You are forgetting. I am very young ; papa and 
mamma think me too young to bind myself by any engagement." 

" It is not that. They choose to keep you, as long as they can, mouldering 
with themselves in this old house." 

"Harry!" 

" Or else it is I whom they dislike, and refuse to receive as a son. Too 
young ? why, you are nineteen. It is an infamous shame ! " 

" I will not speak to you, if you go on in this way. You know just as well 
59 



466 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

as I do what their reasons are. My poor sister Emily made a love-match at 
eighteen, and died, broken-hearted, at twenty-three. Her husband was a 
violent, jealous man, who gave her neither peace nor valuable affection. He 
looked upon her as a pretty toy, petted her, and was raging if a gentleman 
spoke more than ten words by her side, so long as her beauty and novelty 
lasted. Her health failed, her delicate loveliness departed, and with these 
went his worthless passion. I was a mere child then — the last living blossom of 
a long garland of household flowers — when my father laid his beloved Emily 
in her early grave. I stood by his great chair that sad evening in my little 
black gown when he returned from the funeral, and he placed his hands 
upon my head and made a vow that never, with his consent, should his only 
remaining darling follow in the steps of the lost one. ' No man shall have 
her who has not proved himself worthy to win her. As Jacob served Laban 
shall her future husband serve for her, if it please God that she live and 
that she have suitors.' Day by day, year by year, he has but strengthened 
himself in this determination ; and when, last spring, you applied to him for 
my hand, he told you frankly that if you had patience to wait, and were 
convinced of the strength of our mutual attachment, on my twenty-third 
birthday you might claim a Mrs. Harry Trevor from his fireside." 

" But, Nelly, four years to wait ! and. all because poor Mrs. Vernon had 
weak lungs — forgive me, dearest Helen, dearest Helen I " But Helen walked 
on and away from him, with proper indignation. 

With impatient strides he passed her, just as they reached the lawn which 
bordered the avenue and surrounded the house. Extending his arms to bar 
her passage, " Listen to me, my own dear Nelly," he pleaded. " I was 
wrong to say that ; but you cannot understand, my angel, how furious and 
intractable I become when I think of those incalculable days between this 
time and the blessed moment when I shall be sure of you." 

" If you are not sure of me now, you do not fancy that you will be any 
more so then, do you?" asked Helen, gravely; but she permitted him to 
lead her away from the stone steps that she was about mounting, and back 
to the quiet alley under the old oaks. 

He drew her arm through his, gently stroking her gloved hand as it rested 
in his own. 

" If there is no truth and belief between us to-day, there will be none 
then," Helen pursued. " I am, in the sight of heaven, by my own free will 
and wish, your affianced wife. All the priests on earth would not make me 
more so, in spirit, than I am now. But I respect my father's wishes and 
feelings ; and you must do so too," she added, lifting her eyes with such a 
lovely look of tenderness that Harry, as he pressed her hand with renewed 
fervor, murmured a blessing in quite a different tone from the one which he 
had devoted to the now forgotten Walter James. 

He glanced around, and was about to seal his happiness upon the dainty 
pink lips, smiling so sweetly and confidingly ; but Helen, blushing and laugh- 
ing, said : " Take care : papa is reading yesterday's paper at the left-hand 



SUE PETIGKTJ F.IA'G. 467 

window of the dining-room; and I think, if one eye is deciding upon the 
political crisis, the other is directed this way." 

" We are watched, then ! " exclaimed Trevor, passionately, all his short- 
lived good-humor again flown. " This is worse and worse." 

Helen looked at her lover with a calm, searching expression in her blue 
eyes. " Perhaps papa is right. He has a terror of violent men, and he may 
like to see if you are always as mild as he sees you in his presence." 

Trevor bit his lip and stamped his foot impatiently. Helen hummed a 
tune, and settled her belt-ribbon with one hand, while she played the notes 
she was murmuring on the young gentleman's coat sleeve with the other. 

He let the mischievous fingers slide through his arm, and "thought it was 
going to rain, and he had better be thinking of his ride to the city." 

Nelly looked up at the blue heavens, where not a speck of a cloud was 
visible, and gravely congratulated him on a weather-wisdom which was 
equally rare and incomprehensible. 

" But your season, my dear Harry, is always April. Sunshine and storm 
succeed so rapidly, that you can never take in the unbroken calm of this — 
December, for instance. Beside, I thought you were to stay all night with 
us ? I know mamma expects you to do so." 

"I am very much obliged," said Mr. Trevor, haughtily; "I have business 
in town." 

" Clients ? court sitting ? " asked Nelly, innocently, and demurely lifting 
her pretty eyebrows. 

'• No. There is a party at Lou Wilson's, and I half promised to go. We 
are to try some new figures of the German." 

" Indeed ! " Nelly's eyes flashed, and the color stole up deeper to her 
cheek. " I won't detain you." 

She bowed, and turned from him with a cold good-morning. Her heart 
was beating, and the tears were very near; but she managed to still the one, 
and send back the others, so as to say indifferently, over her shoulder : 
'"Should you see Walter James, pray tell him that I shall be happy to learn 
that accompaniment by this evening ; and, as there is a moon, (in spite of 
your storm,) he can ride out after business hours and practise the song. 
But, however, I won't trouble you; mamma is to send a servant to Mrs. 
James's some time to-day, and I will write a note." 

" I think it will be useless. He is going to Miss Wilson's." 

" Not if he can come here, I fancy," said the wilful little beauty, with a 
significant tone ; and then, repeating her cool " Good-by — let us see you 
soon," she sauntered into the house, elaborately pausing to pick off some 
dead leaves from the geraniums that were sunning themselves on the broad 
steps by which she entered. 

Thus parted two foolish children, one of whom had a moment before 
expressed the most overwhelming passion, and the other had avowed herself, 
11 in the sight of heaven, his affianced wife ! " 



CAROLINE GILMAN. 

MRS. GILMAN is the daughter of Samuel Howard, and was born 
in Bostqn, Mass., October 8th, 1794. 

In 1819, Miss Howard married Samuel Gilman, who came to 
Charleston, S. C, where he was ordained pastor of the Unitarian 
Church, which pulpit he filled until his death in 1858. 

In 1832, Mrs. Gilman commenced editing the "Rose-Bud," the 
pioneer juvenile newspaper of the United States. From this periodical 
she has printed at various times the following volumes : 

Recollections of a New England Housekeeper. 

Recollections of a Southern Matron. 

Ruth Raymond ; or, Love's Progress. 

Poetry of Travelling in the United States. 

Tales and Ballads. 

Verses of a Lifetime. 

Letters of Eliza Wilkinson during the invasion of Charleston. 

Also, several volumes for youth, collected into one volume, and 
published as " Mrs. Gilman's Gift-Book." 

Mrs. Gilman's life has been a long and useful one; and of her 
writings can be truly said, " she has written not one line she would 
wish to blot." For nearly half a century Charleston has been her 
home ; and her wish is to make her final resting-place in the cemetery 
adjoining the church of which her husband was pastor. 
March 31st, 1871. 

468 



MRS. CAROLINE H. JERVEY. 

CAROLINE HOWARD GILMAN, the daughter of Rev. Samuel 
Gilman, a Unitarian clergyman, and Mrs. Caroline Gilman, the 
celebrated authoress, was born in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1823. 

In 1840, Miss Gilman married Mr. Wilson Glover, a South Caro- 
lina planter, and was left a widow in 1846, with three children, one 
son and two daughters. She returned to her father's house, and im- 
mediately began to teach, and for fifteen years carried on a successful 
school in Charleston. 

While engaged in teaching, she wrote papers for magazines, also 
poems, over the signature of" Caroline Howard ;" and fiDally her novel, 
" Vernon Grove ; or, Hearts as they Are," which appeared serially in 
the " Southern Literary Messenger," and was afterward published by 
Rudd & Carleton, New York, passing through several editions, and 
warmly received by the critics. " Vernon Grove " was copied for the 
press at night, after being in the school-room all day ; and yet Mrs. 
Glover kept up all her social duties, visiting, entertaining, and seem- 
ing always to be as completely the mistress of her own hours as the 
idlest fine lady. 

She is fastidiously neat and particular in all her surroundings, and 
a wonder for arranging and contriving. While in Greenville, during 
the war, says a friend, w T here her apartments and premises were un- 
avoidably small, they w r ere miracles of ingenuity and order. 

In , 1865, Mrs. Glover married Mr. Louis Jervey, of Charles- 
ton, who had been devotedly attached to her for many years. By 
this marriage she has one daughter. Her son is married ; and her 
eldest daughter has been, like herself, left a youthful widow, with two 
little children. 

In Mrs. Jervey's home circle she is idolized ; her temper is perfectly 
even and self-controlled, her judgment good and ready, and her un- 
failing cheerfulness and flow of pleasing conversation make her a 
charming companion. She talks even more cleverly than she writes, 
and has a vein of humor in speaking which does not appear at all in 
her novels. Mrs. Jervey is uncommonly youthful in appearance, is 

469 



470 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

above the middle height, with a fine, full figure, and an erect, com- 
manding carriage. Her hair is golden -red and abundant ; her com- 
plexion is very fair, and with dark eyebrows and lashes she would be 
lovely : as it is, she is at times indisputably handsome. Her manner 
is striking, lady-like, perfectly self-possessed — not exactly studied; but 
" her memory is extremely good, and she never forgets to be grace- 
ful," never seems to give way to an awkward impulse, and is always 
posed and seen to advantage. A friend says : " I was constantly re- 
minded of Mrs. Jervey by Ristori's attitudes and gestures." 

We are sorry to say that this accomplished lady is at present in ill 
health — prohibited any literary labor, even the most careless letter- 
writing. Her latest novel, " Helen Courtenay's Promise," (published 
by George W. Carleton, New York, 1866,) was prepared for the press 
.by dictation of an hour a day to one of her daughters. This novel 
has been styled the " production of a brilliant, creative fancy." 
1869. Jeanie A. Dickson. 



JULIA SLEEPING. 

Hush ! let the baby sleep I 
Mark her hand so white and slender, 
Note her red lip full and tender, 
And her breathing, like the motion 
Which the waves of calmest ocean 

In their peaceful throbbings keep. 

Hush! let the baby rest! 
Who would wake from blissful sleeping, 
To this world so filled with weeping, 
Those sweet eyes, like stars o'erclouded, 
Those calm eyes with dark fringe shrouded, 

Those crossed hands upon her breast? 

Hush I let the baby rest ! 
See each white and taper finger, 
Where a rose-tint loves to linger, 
As the sun at evening dying 
Leaves a flush all warmly lying 

In the bosom of the west I 



CAROLINE H. JERVEY, 471 

See on her lips a smile ! 
'Tis the light of dreamland gleaming 
Like to morning's first faint beaming: 
Hush! still solemn silence keeping, 
Watch her, watch her in her sleeping, 

As she smiles in dreams the while. 

I would paint her as she lies, 
With brown ringlets damply clinging 
To her forehead, shadows flinging 
On its whiteness — or where tracings 
Of the blue veins' interlacings 

On its snowy surface rise. 

God hear our fervent prayer! 
Through the whole of life's commotion, 
As she stems the troubled ocean, 
Give her calm and peaceful slumber; 
And may sorrow not encumber 

Her unfolding years with care. 

Ah, see, her sleep is o'er ! 
Flushed her cheek is: she is holding 
Mystic converse with the folding 
Of the curtains o'er her drooping: 
What beholds she in their looping 

Mortals ne'er beheld before? 

Now from her bath of sleep, 
Many a deep'ning dimple showing, 
She hath risen fresh and glowing, 
Like a flower that rain hath brightened, 
Or a heart that tears have lightened, 

Tears the weary sometimes weep. 

Herself the silence breaks ! 
Hear her laugh, so rich and ringing! 
Hear her small voice quaintly singing ! 
She hath won us by caressings: 
We exhaust all words in blessings 

When this precious baby wakes. 



472 LIVING FEMALE WKITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 



A SUMMER MEMORY. 

Beloved, 't was a night to shrine 

In happy thought for years, 
A memory of certain joy, 

A spell 'gainst woe and tears. 

And why? Was it because the moon, 

More bright than e'er before, 
Stooped from her throne to kiss the waves 

That rippled to the shore? 

Or was it that the gentle breeze, 
"With whispers fond and sweet, 

Brought fragrance from some spicy land 
And laid it at our feet? 

Ah ! never since primeval time 

Was night so fair as this — 
So filled with joy, so fraught with peace, 

So marked with perfect bliss. 

I seemed to live a fresh, new life, 

A life almost divine, 
As on the glittering shore we sat, 

Thy meek eyes raised to mine. 

Was it the night that brightened all? 

Oft comes the question now — 
The night that brought such blest content? 

No, dearest, it was thou. 




CAROLINE A. BALL. 

MRS. BALL is the daughter of the late Rev. Edward Rutledge, an 
Episcopal clergyman of Charleston. Her early life was passed 
at the North, having been educated at the seminary of the Misses 
Edwards, in New Haven. Her first poem, or rather the first which 
caused any sensation, was written when she was sixteen, and was a 
satirical piece, in answer to an impertinent attack on woman in the 
" Yale Literary Magazine." It was published anonymously, and was 
freely discussed, in the presence of the fair author, by the students of 
her acquaintance, in terms of high compliment, or in condemnation 
of its severity. 

Mrs. Ball is the wife of Mr. Isaac Ball, of Charleston. She never 
published under her own name until the struggle for "Southern inde- 
pendence" commenced. The poems she wrote were very popular: 
coming, as they did, from a heart full of love for her fatherland, they 
spoke to the hearts of the Southern people, inspired by the same 
mighty love. 

Her poems are not studied efforts ; but of and from the heart. 

In 1866, a number of her poems on the war, originally published in 
the " Charleston Daily News," were printed in pamphlet form — 

IN MEMORIAM 

OF 

OUR LOVED AND LOST CAUSE, 

AND 

OUR MARTYRED DEAD: 

" Outnumbered — not outbraved." 

This book was entitled " The Jacket of Gray, and Other Fugitive 
Poems." 

THE JACKET OF GRAY. 

Fold it up carefully, lay it aside, 
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride ; 
For dear must it be to our hearts evermore, 
The jacket of gray our loved soldier-boy wore. 
60 473 



474 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Can we ever forget when lie joined the brave band 
Who rose in defence of our dear Southern land, 
And in his bright youth hurried on to the fray, 
How proudly he donned it, the jacket of gray ? 

His fond mother blessed him, and looked up above, 
Commending to Heaven the child of her love : 
What anguish was hers mortal tongue cannot say, 
When he passed from her sight in the jacket of gray. 

But her country had called, and she would not repine, 
Though costly the sacrifice placed on its shrine ; 
Her heart's dearest hopes on its altar she lay 
When she sent out her boy in the jacket of gray. 

Months passed, and war's thunders rolled over the land ; 
Unsheathed was the sword and lighted the brand ; 
We heard in the distance the sounds of the fray, 
And prayed for our boy in the jacket of gray. 

Ah ! vain, all, all vain were our prayers and our tears ; 
The glad shout of victory rang in our ears ; 
But our treasured one on the red battle-field lay, 
While the life-blood oozed out on the jacket of gray. 

His young comrades found him, and tenderly bore 
The cold, lifeless form to his home by the shore ; 
Oh ! dark were our hearts on that terrible day, 
When we saw our dead boy in the jacket of gray. 

Ah ! spotted and tattered, and stained now with gore 
Was the garment which once he so proudly wore ; 
We bitterly wept as we took it away, 
And replaced with death's white robes the jacket of gray. 

We laid him to rest in his cold, narrow bed, 
And graved on the marble we placed o'er his head, 
As the proudest tribute our sad hearts could pay, 
He never disgraced the jacket of gray. 

Then fold it up carefully, lay it aside, 
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride ; 
For dear must it be to our hearts evermore, 
The jacket of gray our loved soldier-boy wore. 



M 



MRS. MARY S. B. SHINDLER. 

ARY STANLY BUNCE PALMER is a native of Beaufort, S. 
C, but removed while very young to the city of Charleston, where 
her father, the Rev. B. M. Palmer, was the highly honored pastor of 
the Independent Church on Meeting Street. She was chiefly educated 
at the seminary of the Misses Ramsay, in that city ; but, in conse- 
quence of the delicate health which so often accompanies the delicate 
organism of the gifted children of song, she was sent for a short period 
to complete her studies in the more bracing climate of the North. She 
gave early evidence of poetic genius, and many of her school-mates 
remember with pleasure her impromptu and mirthful efforts in child- 
hood. After her return to Carolina, Miss Palmer became known as a 
contributor to the "Rosebud" and other similar periodicals. Her 
graceful manners and sprightly conversation made her at all times a 
desirable companion ; while her ready sympathy and thorough appre- 
ciation of the feelings of others rendered her a warmly cherished friend. 

In 1835, Miss Palmer was united in marriage to Mr. Charles E. 
Dana, and accompanied him to the city of New York, where they 
spent three years, and then removed to the West. They were but a 
short time located in their new home, when one of those singular epi- 
demics that sometimes sweep over the rich prairies, and enter (none 
know how) into the new settlements that populate that vast region of 
country, appeared in the vicinity of their residence, and in two short 
days Mr. Dana and their only child were numbered among its victims. 

Alone, among comparative strangers, Mrs. Dana, rousing into action 
the latent energy of her character, sought and gained once more her 
Southern home. As the wearied birdling returns to the parent nest 
for rest and comfort, so this heart-stricken wanderer came back to the 
bosom of her family, and, amid the ties of kindred and associations of 
her girlhood, found consolation for her grief and strength for the 
duties yet before her. 

From early youth she had written, for amusement, occasional con- 
tributions for various publications, but now she devoted her fine talents 
to the task as a regular occupation ; and in 1841 published that happy 

475 



476 LIVING FEMALE WEI TEES OF THE SOUTH. 

combination of music and poetry known as " The Southern Harp." 
A similar volume soon followed from her pen, under the title of " The 
Northern Harp," which met as warm a welcome as her first attempt 
to adapt her own pure thoughts to the secular music familiar to 
all. Then came " The Parted Family, and Other Poems," also a suc- 
cess. About the year 1844, Mrs. Dana published a succession of short 
prose stories, and, soon after, her largest and most remarkable prose 
work, entitled " Letters to Relatives and Friends," written to defend 
her changed opinions on the subject of religious faith. Doubts of the 
creed she had inherited had arisen in her mind, and investigation had 
strengthened them into a conviction that she had mistaken the denom- 
ination to which she should attach herself: therefore she became a 
Unitarian. The work was well written, and immediately republished 
in London. 

In 1847, Mrs. Dana suffered another most deeply-felt bereavement, 
in the death of both of her parents, and it required all the support of 
that religion which she had still continued to investigate, to enable her 
to bear up under the renewed trial ; and, happily for her, light and 
strength crowned her efforts. 

In May, 1848, she married the Rev. Robert D. Shindler, of the 
Episcopal Church. 

"Alas for those who love, 
Yet may not join in prayer!" 

sings Mrs. Hemans, in her "Forest Sanctuary." But Mrs. Dana- 
Shindler was spared this bitter experience, for she had once more 
returned to her belief in the Holy Trinity, and could unite with her 
husband in all his offerings of praise and prayer, while the Angel of 
Peace folded its white wings over her chastened, but loving heart. 

During the late war, Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Shindler experienced many 
trials incident to the condition of the country. They were in the 
neighborhood of the famous "Fort Pillow," and saw and heard enough 
of bloodshed and suffering to harrow up their hearts. Mrs. Shindler 
could tell some thrilling tales ; but she tries to forget, or to regard it as 
some horrible dream which has passed away. 

Her writings, since her marriage to Rev. Mr. Shindler, have been 
published in magazines and newspapers, and for several years have 
been almost entirely on church subjects. In 1869, Rev. Mr. and Mrs. 
Shindler were residing in Nacogdoches, Texas. 



JULIA C. R. DORR. 477 

The following is a list of Mrs. Shindler's books : 

1. The Southern Harp. Original sacred and moral songs, adapted 
to the piano-forte and guitar. Boston. 1840. 

2. The Northern Harp. New York. 1841. 

3. The Parted Family, and other Poems. 1842. 

4. The Temperance Lyre. 1842. 

5. Charles Morton ; or, The Young Patriot. 1843. 

6. The Young Sailor. 1844. 

7. Forecastle Tom. 1844. 

8. Letters to Relatives and Friends on the Trinity. 1845. 



3>«KC 



JULIA C. R. DORR. 

JULIA CAROLINE RIPLEY was bom February 13th, 1825, at 
Charleston, S. C. While she was in early childhood her mother 
died, and shortly afterward her father, William Y. Ripley, removed 
to New York City. Mr. Ripley is a native of Vermont : his wife was 
the daughter of French emigres, who, residing in the island of San 
Domingo, fled to Charleston at the time of the insurrection of slaves 
in that island. . 

In 1830, Mr. Ripley, quitting business in New York, removed to 
Vermont. Hence the subject of this sketch is generally styled "a 
Vermont authoress." 

February 22d, 1847, Miss Ripley was married to Seneca M. Dorr, 
of Columbia County, New York. 

Mrs. Dorr has been a most industrious writer. Her tales, nove- 
lettes, and poems, published in various first-class literary journals and 
magazines from 1848 to the present time, would form a score of medium- 
sized volumes. 

Her last published volume — "Sybil Huntingdon," a novel, New 
York, 1870 — was much praised. 

Mrs. Dorr has a daughter, Zulma, who promises to attain the same 
rank in art her mother has reached in literature. 



MISS ESSIE B. CHEESBOROUGH. 

ESSIE B. CHEESBOROUGH is a daughter of the late John W. 
Cheesbprough, a prominent shipping merchant of Charleston, 
South Carolina. Her mother is a native of Liverpool, England. 
Miss Cheesborough was educated in Philadelphia and in her native 
city, Charleston, South Carolina. 

She commenced her literary career at an early age, writing under 
the noms de plume of " Motte Hall," " Elma South," " Ide Delmar," 
and the now well-known initials of " E. B. C." 

She was a regular contributor to the "Southern Literary Gazette," 
published in Charleston, and edited by the Bev. William C. Richards ; 
and when Mr. Paul Hayne assumed the editorship, she continued her 
contributions. She was also a contributor to " Russell's Magazine," 
one of the best magazines ever published in the " Southland," and to 
various other Southern literary journals of the past, and to the "Land 
we Love," of the present era. After the war she was a regular con- 
tributor to the " Watchman," a weekly journal, edited and published 
in New York by the Rev. Dr. Deems, of North Carolina, with which 
journal she was connected until its discontinuance. 

Miss Cheesborough's style is fluent and easy, and she does not pander 
to the sensational, but is natural, truthful, and earnest, never egotis- 
tical, or guilty of " fine writing." She has never published a book, 
although her writings on various subjects, political, literary, and reli- 
gious, would fill several volumes. 

1868. 



RENUNCIATION. 



I know that thou art beautiful: 

The glory of thy face 
Are those dark eyes of witchery, 

That certain nameless grace. 
Old Titian would have painted thee 

With joy too deep for telling — ._„ 



ALICE F. SIMONS. 479 

That ivory cheek, the lustrous light 
In golden tresses dwelling. 

But, manacled by solemn fate, 

I cannot burst the fetters; 
Or write the story of my life 

In precious, golden letters : 
Love's star for me can never shine; 

Its trembling light grows dimmer, 
As through the dusky veil of grief 

Hope sends a feeble glimmer. 

Then go ; and in thy happy fate 

Of womanly completeness, 
Make strong a husband's loving heart 

With all thy woman's sweetness. 
But I must stand without the gate, 

While Eden's glowing splendor 
Lights up with its aurora smile 

The glories I surrender. 



MISS ALICE F. SIMONS. 



M : 



maiden name was Wigfall, — a connection of ex-Senator Wigfall, 
of Texas, and a niece of the late Washington Alston, artist and 
author. Mrs. Simons has weaved " fictions " from early childhood ; 
and her published novelettes, appearing anonymously, give promise of 
success in the field she has chosen. " Destiny," a tale of before the 
war, published in the Yorkville "Enquirer" is her most ambitious 
publication. 

Her home is that of her birth. 
1871. 



MARY SCRIMZEOUR WHITAKER. 

THE author of " Albert Hastings " and various productions, prose 
and poetical, is a native of Beaufort District, South Carolina. 
Her father, Kev. Professor Samuel Furman, son of the Rev. Dr. Rich- 
ard Furman, of Charleston, South Carolina, is a clergyman of the 
Baptist persuasion, still living at the advanced age of seventy-seven 
years, and famed for his learning, eloquence, and piety. Her mother, 
whose maiden name was Scrimzeour, is of Scottish descent, and traces 
back her lineage to Sir Alexander Scrimzeour, celebrated in Scottish 
story, whose descendants, in the male line, were hereditary standard- 
bearers of the kings of Scotland. 

Her father having removed from Beaufort to Sumter District, she 
passed the early part of her life at the High Hills of Santee, probably 
the most beautiful and romantic portion of South Carolina. 

The critical articles on the poets from the days of Dryden to those 
of Tennyson, which appeared editorially in the Sunday issue of the 
" Times " newspaper in New Orleans during the year 1866, were from 
her pen. 

Previous to the late war, she was, for some time, a regular contri- 
butor to the Philadelphia magazines, writing under her own name, 
regarding a nom de plume as a foolish species of affectation, and not 
being ashamed to claim the authorship of anything she wrote herself, 
nor willing that it should be claimed by others. 

In 1837, she, with her parents and two of her brothers, visited 
Edinburgh, her mother being entitled to a large estate in Scot- 
land, then in litigation, and which she finally recovered. They took 
lodgings in a fashionable portion of the New Town of Edinburgh, char- 
acterized by the elegance and massive character of its private edifices 
and the beauty of its gardens. Here she passed her time surrounded 
by friends, among whom were some of the most distinguished literati 
of that ancient metropolis, such as Campbell, the poet ; the Messrs. 
Chambers, editors of " Chambers's Journal;" Professor Wilson, editor 
of " Blackwood's Magazine ; " Professor Moir, (the " Delta " of that 
work ;) Mr. Tait, editor of " Tait's Magazine ; " Burton, the historian ; 
Mary Howitt, and other notables. Campbell was so pleased with her 
480 



MARY SCRIM ZEOUE WHITAKER. 481 

poetry that he encouraged her not to neglect her gift, and compli. 
mented her highly, calling her " his spiritual daughter." Some of her 
fugitive pieces were published, at the time, in the journals of Great 
Britain. 

While in Edinburgh, she formed an acquaintance with a young 
advocate of the Scottish Bar, John Miller, Esq., (brother of Hon. Wil- 
liam Miller, now member of the British Parliament,) whom she subse- 
quently married. Having received the appointment of Attorney-Gen- 
eral of the British West Indies, he embarked for Nassau, N. P., with 
his young wife, but immediately after his arrival there, he was seized 
with yellow fever, and fell a victim to its insidious attacks. Mrs. 
Miller, assailed by the same fearful disease, recovered from it, and, with 
a heavy heart, returned in a Government vessel to South Carolina. 

Her descriptions of the scenery of the West Indies, and of the epi- 
demics which annually sweep off so many of its inhabitants, contained 
in "Albert Hastings," were doubtless suggested by her visit to that 
beautiful but fatal region. 

After twelve years passed in widowhood, almost exclusively devoted 
to literary studies and pursuits, she married Daniel K. Whitaker, Esq., 
a gentleman not undistinguished in the world of letters, the editor for 
many years of the " Southern Quarterly Review," and a fine scholar. 

In 1850, Mrs. Whitaker published a volume of her poems. There 
are pieces in the collection characterized by spirit and fire ; but the 
majority of her effusions, are deeply tinged with the seriousness that 
naturally resulted from passages in her early history. The tributes 
to " Scott," "Byron," "Campbell," " Caravaggio," "Miss Landon," 
and "Mrs. Hemans," are among the most finished of her compositions. 
Many of her best pieces, written since this volume was published, 
(several of them elicited by the scenes of the late war and the gallantry 
of our generals upon the battle-field,) are scattered in the newspapers 
and periodicals of the day. 

In 1868 appeared "Albert Hastings," her first extended effort in the de- 
partment of novel-writing. The scene of the novel, commencing in the 
Southern States, ends in England, the birthplace of the ancestors of 
the hero, where, after struggling manfully with many difficulties which 
beset him in the outset of his career in this country, he inherits a 
princely fortune. This work is the precursor of others, which, the 
writer of this sketch understands, are either finished or in course of 
preparation. 
61 



482 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Mrs. Whitaker resides in New Orleans, and is a regular contributor 
to the "Sunday Times " of that city. Her daughter Lily possesses 
considerable poetic talent, and several of her published poems have 
been extensively copied. w. K. D. 

1870. 



THE SUMMER EETEEAT OF A SOUTHERN PLANTER. 

Noonday sun fell in gorgeous effulgence over a field where long maize- 
leaves drooped like those of the Indian banana, when salt sea-breezes cease 
to fan fchem, and vertical rays glitter on white rocks, burn into the bosom of 
earth, and blind the eye of the beholder by their intenseness. But this is 
no tropical scene. On the declivity of a green hill-side rises a rude dwell- 
ing, composed of logs, built after the fashion of a pen. A wide passage 
separates two apartments. This passage, or corridor, is floored with pine 
boards, which, having been often scoured with sand and the shucks of Indian 
corn, has assumed an aspect of purity and whiteness truly refreshing. It 
extends from the front to the back of the house, and whenever there is the 
least atmospheric agitation, here the wind plays in cooling gusts. 

But, as before said, it is noontide now, and stagnation pervades all, both 
within and without. Great hickory-trees and oaks seem to be sleeping a 
luxuriant sleep, brooded over by the day-king, as purple wild grapes ripen 
in luscious clusters on tangling vines, which form untrained arcades down a 
steep declivity, terminating in a dingle, or branch, cool, and sheltered by 
tall, magnificent pines, unlike those of the uplands. High wave their green 
crests, in fine contrasts to rich, blue, cloudless summer heavens, dominating a 
less stately growth of fragrant gum-trees, cedars, dogwood, and black walnut. 

Here the cool spring-house is built over a running stream ; and earthen 
pans, disposed on either side, are crusted over by cream, which will to-mor- 
row be converted into healthy buttermilk and yellow butter, fresh and pure 
as the stream that wanders beneath, and rich as the golden sky that gleams 
above them. A large orchard extends on the right side of the dwelling. 
There the ruddy peach, Tyrian damson plum, large purple fig, and humble 
melon, lying on the earth, striped with green and white, nestling under grass, 
and its peculiar serrated leaves, await the hand of the gatherer. Tall sun- 
flowers rise amid these Southern productions, and, ever turning their atten- 
tion toward their potent lord, stand bravely forth, as though they said, 
" Perfect love casteth out fear." And so they follow his grand march over 
the blue empyrean down to his setting, when, their graceful adieu being 
made, they await to-morrow's sunrise ere, like adoring Persians, they turn 
them to the east and drink in his morning light. 



MAEY SCEIMZEOUE WHITAKEP, 483 

A large dog lies dozing in the shade of a flower-shaped catalpa. Lazily 
he slumbers, and from gnats and flies occasionally attempts to relieve him- 
self; flaps his huge ears, whisks his tail, and shows his glittering teeth. A 
lofty pole, planted firmly in the ground, is hung about with dry calabashes, 
each presenting an open aperture in front, which has been cut for the ad- 
mission of swallows and martins, these birds being esteemed as denizens of 
a farm at the South, for no reason that I could ever ascertain, save that the 
old African crones, who preside over the plantations in matters of supersti- 
tious belief, reverence them. 

A farm in South Carolina engages our attention, or rather the summer 
residence of one of her sometime princely planters. It was the custom of 
these gentlemen to retire from their plantation, usually situated in the low 
country, at this season. Their operatives, of African descent, whose lineage 
and constitution prevented them from incurring the least risk by continued 
residence in lowland sections during midsummer heats, remained on rice- 
plantations, on the seaboard and in river-swamps, where cotton was culti- 
vated, while their Anglo-Saxon masters sought refuge amidst pine-barren 
wastes or on the apex of elevated hills. 

The house now introduced on the scene was one in the latter-named region, 
the dwelling of Mr. Campbell — Scotch, as his name imports, and a true son 
of that land which not only gives birth to heroes of the sword and autocrats 
of the great mental republic of the world, but to good citizens, honest, 
industrious, and enterprising, all the world over. A love of his native land, 
or at least a memory of it, was traceable in the objects which, on entering 
either of the apartments sej3arated by the wide passage before alluded to, 
met the eye. On unplastered walls were Highland scenes, depicted with 
graphic skill. Falls of the Clyde, Covalinn, Tantallon Castle, and Highland 
trosacks looked in speaking semblance from rich frames ; and disposed on 
tables, in the midst, were " Blackwood," the " Edinburgh Review," and vari- 
ous periodicals fraught with that sound sense and discriminating intelligence 
which made Walter Scott the wonder of his age as a novelist. Thomas Camp- 
bell the legitimate successor of Dryden and Pope, and a long line of histo- 
rians, orators, and statesmen the exemplars of their country's glory. 

Bating the indications stated, this was a truly American establishment, or 
rather a sample of Southern summer residences among the wealthy. The 
house, being plain almost to rudeness, did not lack any accommodation con- 
sonant with free ventilation, a warm season, comfort, and use. The stables 
were as large as the dwelling, and under one extended roof were elegant 
vehicles, English horses, and attendant grooms, black as ebony, whistling 
and happy, very cheerfully performing the duties of that fraternity — chop- 
ping oats, currying sleek steeds, or putting in order trapping and harness. 

Around the low-built but wide house were bare poles supporting a shed 
covered with green pine boughs, which emitted a healthful odor, and when 
dried in the sun were removed and replaced by others fresh and verdant. 



484 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Coral woodbine and many-flowered convolvulus with passion-flower and 
yellow jessamine twine around these rude posts and garland with beauty 
their lofty pilasters. Here humming-birds expand gossamer plumage, hover 
over India creeper, and insert their long spiral bills into the heart of each 
fragile and fairy flower. Great black butterflies, with silver-spotted wings, 
flit from lilac and white althea to scarlet verbena beds, from forest honey- 
suckle to crimson butterfly-weed, from wild thyme to those unnoted children 
of our American flora which rejoice in Southern suns and bloom like Eden 
beneath Southern dews. The grasshopper sings his shrill song, the bluejay 
whisks amidst sycamore leaves, and the speckled woodpecker rings his horny 
beak against decaying bark, as, perched midway on some ancient trunk, he 
plies his ceaseless task. Yet there is silence. All things own the might of 
heat — all save wild songsters and the busy hostler's whistle. 

Down sinks day's grand luminary! Above his evening couch is gathered 
the glorious drapery of the skies drawn over a cerulean expanse. His lin- 
gering beams shoot yellow lustre over the scene. Shadows are being length- 
ened from skyey tops of towering pines to the lower altitude of man's 
dwelling. That, with light, is insensibly withdrawn, and soon the chick- 
will-willow, whip-poor-will, and night-hawk raise their voices, while locusts 
and katydids chirp in unison, and the harsh-throated swamp-frog sends a 
hoarse cry from the dingle below. 



>^c 



FANNY M. P. DEAS. 

THE efforts of this lady in the literary line have been limited, and 
chiefly directed to the entertainment of the domestic circle. The 
maiden name of Mrs. Deas was Wigfall; both parents were Carolinians : 
her mother of English descent. . Her father was a nephew of Wash- 
ington Alston. Mrs. Deas possesses considerable talent for drawing and 
painting. She lives in Charleston. " The Little Match-Girl," versified 
from Hans Anderson's story of that name, a poem with the imprint 
of J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, 1870, is her only published 
volume. 

She is the author of a prize novelette, published in the Yorkville 
"Enquirer," (1871,) entitled "The Lost Diamond." 



MARGARET MAXWELL MARTIN. 

THE subject of this sketch was born in Dumfries, Scotland, in 1807, 
and when eight years of age, accompanied her parents to America. 
They settled in North Carolina, at Fayetteville ; but afterward re- 
moved to the beautiful city of Columbia, S. C. 

In 1836, she married the Rev. William Martin, of the Methodist 
Episcopal Church, and shared with him the life of an itinerant mis- 
sionary. 

Mrs. Martin has taught a large female seminary in Columbia for 
nearly a quarter of a century. Her occupation has not been writing, 
but teaching, which has occupied her life's prime. Conscientiously 
she felt that she could not give the Muse her strength — her school had 
first claims; consequently, her poems have been recreation, and her 
themes chiefly religious, for she felt she owed God a peculiar debt, that 
she could only pay by devoting to Him her " one talent," along with 
all else she possessed. 

The late William Gilmore Simms said : 

" Mrs. Martin partakes of the missionary spirit with her husband ; and, 
while he illustrates the Scriptures in sermons which bear glad tidings of 
salvation to hungering souls, she clothes like lessons in the more melodious 
garments of poesie, which appeal equally to the affections, the necessities and 
tastes 

" In her various wanderings as a missionary's wife, our author has been 
brought into neighborhoods which should have with us a classical and 
patriotic distinction. She has sought out and explored their place of mark, 
and caught up and woven into graceful verse or no less graceful prose the 
legends and the histories of our colonial and Bevolutionary periods. The fields 
distinguished by the storm of battle, the ruins which mark the decayed or 
devastated settlement, the noble heroism which makes obscure places famous 
forever — these she has explored with something of the mood of 'Old 
Mortality,' and with her pen she has brightened the ancient memories, while 
newly recording the ancient deeds of heroism or simple virtue. We commend 
her writings as always possessing a value for the reader who desires truth 

486 



486 LIVING FEMALE WK ITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

in its simplicity, character in its purity, and heroism when addressed to 
patriotic objects." 

Among Mrs. Martin's publications are " Day-Spring," " Methodism, 
or Christianity in Earnest," " The Sabbath-school Offering," a collec- 
tion of poems and true stories, and two volumes of poetry — "Religious 
Poems " and " Flowers and Fruits." 

That scholarly lady and graceful writer, Mrs. E. F. Ellet, is the 
author of the 'following genial notice of " Religious Poems :" 

" The author of this book is an accomplished lady of Columbia, the wife 
of a clergyman of the Methodist Episcopal Church. She has for many years 
been engaged in teaching, and communion with the Muse has formed the 
recreation of her useful life. It is a spirit like David's, ' after God's own 
heart,' that here outpours itself in melody. Rare indeed is the sight of a 
mind attuned to all things bright and lovely and tender and sweet in nature, 
consecrating all its powers to the worship and service of God. Such poems, 
even were they not marked by high literary ability, are fragments of the 
language of heaven, because they breathe the life and illustrate the grace of 
Christianity. Faith, childlike and pure ; hope, exalted ; love, ardent and 
enduring ; patience, humility, and a fair sisterhood of virtues, are reflected 
in these simple strains. The reader will feel a benign and holy influence 
stealing into his heart, and will find solace for almost every pang ' entailed 
on human hearts,' if he reads with a true sympathy. It would be a blessed 
thing if our poetical literature were more generally imbued with this fervor 
of religious feeling — this deep love of truth. 

"The longest poem in the collection is an epic of the 'Progress of Chris- 
tianity,' exhibiting God's dealings with His church, from the days of the 
apostles until now. The second part of this poem illustrates the power 
which has accompanied the progress of the religion of our Redeemer. 
Viewing briefly its influence in Scotland, the hallowed Sabbath of the 
Puritans is considered, and various pictures of human life represented, in 
which piety has triumphed over trial, sorrow, and death. The following are 
of them : 

' Gaze on that lovely one : consumption's doom 
Is hastening her to an untimely tomb : 
Hers fortune, friends, and genius; yet all 
Must yield her up at Death's relentless call; 
Fades day by day the rose-tint from her cheek, 
And daily grows she weaker ; and, thus weak, 
Is she not daunted at the approach of him — ■ 
The " King of Terrors," horrible and grim ? 



MARGARET MAXWELL MARTIN. 487 

Will she not shrink from his unyielding clutch, 

Nor seek to evade his blighting, withering touch? 

Thus fragile, the last conflict will she dare ? 

Has she been nerved by mighty faith and prayer ? 

What words? "I'm ready!" 'Tis her own dear voice; 

She's more than conqueror — rejoice! rejoice! 

'See ye yon widowed mother o'er the bier 
Of her fair babe, so precious and so dear ? 
'Twas her sole solace since the dreadful day 
When death removed her partner and her stay: 
This little one, e'en sleeping or awake, 
Sweet solace to the poor bereaved spake. 
It lay upon her bosom, and its breath 
Was redolent of health — none dreamed of death ; 
When suddenly 't was from the bosom torn 
Of that fond mother, now indeed forlorn ; 
Yet mark her faith : " The Lord is true and just ; 
Although he slay me, yet in him I '11 trust ! " ' 

The remaining two-thirds of the volume are composed of "Poems 
by the Lamplight," as the author felicitously calls her paraphrases of 
Scripture passages. These are applied to the incidents and interests 
of daily and practical life. " The Beatitudes " form a series, and 
seldom has sacred truth been more gratefully made familiar to the 
soul than in the stanzas headed " Blessed are they that Mourn." 



MY SAVIOUR, THEE! 

When the paths of life's young morning 
First I enter'd on, unheeding 

Wisdom's well-weighed words of warning 
When my feet were torn and bleeding 
With the way, then I was needing 
My Saviour, thee ! 

When the bright sun's daily duty 
Lighted life's meridian, beading 

That life's slender thread with beauty; 

When, by that light, I was reading 

Life, then, oh ! how I was needing 

My Saviour, thee ! 



488 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

When the autumn, mellow, sombre, 
Came, with all earth's hopes receding, 

Casting shadows without number; 

When the signs mj soul was heeding, 
Of that searing, I was needing 
My Saviour, thee ! 

When shall come death's midnight awful > 

And my parting soul is deeding 
All its sins and sorrows woful 

To the past, dead past, when pleading 

But thy merits, I '11 be needing, 
My Saviour, thee ! 



MKS. M. A. EWART KIPLEY. 

MRS. RIPLEY is a writer of novelettes of some considerable local 
reputation. A novelette written by her, entitled " Ellen Camp- 
bell ; or, King's Mountain," — a Revolutionary tale, which was pub- 
lished in the Yorkville (S. C.) " Enquirer " during the war, — created 
a furore, and doubled the subscription of the paper. 

Mary Ann McMahon was born in Ireland, but removed to the 
United States in early childhood ; and when she was five years old, her 
parents removed to Columbia, S. C, where she was educated. It was 
not until after her marriage with James B. Ewart, of Columbia, that 
she published any of her writings. The maiden novelette was a prize 
story for a literary journal published by Dr. Gibbs, of Columbia. 

Mr. Ewart dying in 1857, leaving his widow with a young family, 
she removed to Hendersonville, N. C, in 1861, and took charge of a 
school at that place. She wrote at this time a series of Sunday-school 
stories for the " Southern Presbyterian." 

In 1862, she married Colonel V. Ripley, of Hendersonville, where 
she resides. 

Her last publication is " Avlona," a prize novelette published in the 
Yorkville "Enquirer," 1871. 

Mrs. Ripley is in the prime of life, possessing that vivacity of which 
her writings are characteristic. 
1871. 



2 



MRS. CATHARINE LADD. 

THE name that heads this article will call a thrill of pleasure to 
many hearts — for this lady is " one of the most noted and suc- 
cessful of the teachers of the State of South Carolina," and hundreds 
of her old pupils, many of them now " teaching," scattered throughout 

e land, remember her kindness and entire unselfishness. " She is 

e most generous of women; her time, her talents, her worldly goods 
are at the command of all her friends," says one of her ex-pupils. 

Mrs. Ladd is a native of Virginia — was born in October, 1810 — 
married when eighteen years old to Mr. Ladd, a portrait and minia- 
ture painter. Her maiden name was Catharine Stratton. 

For several years after her marriage Mrs. Ladd wrote poetry, which 
was published in the various periodicals of the day. For three years 
she was a regular correspondent of several newspapers, and published 
a series of articles on drawing, painting, and education, which at- 
tracted considerable attention. 

In 1842, Mrs. Ladd permanently settled in the town of AVinnsboro', 
South Carolina, where she established one of the largest institutions 
of learning in the State, which sustained its well-deserved reputation 
until closed, in 1861. 

Mrs. Ladd has contributed tales, sketches, essays, and poems to 
various journals under different noms de plume — as " Minnie May- 
flower," "Arcturus," "Alida," and "Morna." 

During the existence of the "Floral Wreath," published in Charles- 
ton by Mr. Edwin Heriott, Mrs. Ladd was a regular contributor. 
Mr. Heriott, in a notice of the literary talent of the South, speaking 
of Mrs. Ladd's poetical works, said : " They were sweet, smooth, and 
flowing, particularly so ; but, like Scotch music, their gayest notes 
were sad." 

In 1851, she with ardor took up the subject of education, home 
manufactories, aud encouragement of white labor, believing that the 
ultimate prosperity of South Carolina would depend on it. She rea- 
soned from a conviction that South Carolina could not long compete 
62 489 



490 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

with the more Southern and Southwestern States in raising cotton, 
and an extensive system of slave labor would realize no profit. 

Mrs. Ladd's plays, written at the solicitation of friends, and per- 
formed by them, were very popular. The " Grand Scheme " and 
" Honeymoon " were celebrated far and w 7 ide. The incidents and in- 
troduction of characters showed that she had more than ordinary 
talent for that species of composition. Mrs. Ladd has a wonderful 
knack of managing young people. 

After the commencement of the war, Mrs. Ladd gave up everything 
to devote herself to the cause of the South. She lived for the soldiers ! 
was elected President of the "Soldiers' Aid Association," which office 
she retained until the close of the war, and by her untiring exertions 
kept the society well supplied with clothing. Her pen was unused 
during the war, the needle and her personal supervision being con- 
stantly in demand. In Winnsboro', no church is built, no charity 
solicited, no ball, concert, tableaux, or fair — nothing goes on without 
her cheerful and ever-ready aid. 

Mrs. Ladd is said to be "homely," and dresses to suit herself, never 
caring about the " latest fashions, " ignores "hoops," and always wears 
her hair short. Her manner is abrupt and decided; but one instinc- 
tively feels it to be " kind." 

The " Confederate flag " is said to have originated with Mrs. Ladd ; 
the first one, we allude to. The fire of February 21st, 1865, destroyed 
the literary labor of thirty years. With the assistance of a Federal 
officer, Mrs. Ladd saved the jewels of the Masonic Lodge in the next 
house to hers ; but the flame and smoke prevented her finding the 
" charter." By this time the fire had got so much ahead on her own 
premises, and the confusion was so great, that she lost everything. 

It is said that outside of the walls of her school, Mrs. Ladd was the 
gay, social companion of every young lady under her charge. Following 
her to the school-room, you instantly felt the change : though not per- 
haps a word was spoken, every young lady felt it. She has a power- 
ful will and habit of centring every thought and feeling instantly on 
the occupation of the moment. The confusion of voices or passing 
objects never seemed to disturb her when writing. 

A friend of Mrs. Ladd says: "Her quick motions show the rapidity 
of thought. Even now, at the age of fifty-eight, were you walking 
behind her, you might mistake her, from the light buoyancy of step, 
for a young girl." 

1S69. ' O 



CLAEA V. DARGAN. 

FILLED with aspirations after. the true and the beautiful — enthusias- 
tic about music — with a something so bright, so star-like about her 
that weconceive she must be all that is fair and " lovely, and of good re- 
port" — few young writers, who have written as much as Miss Dargan, 
have uniformly written so well, and with so little effort. Says she, " If 
I did not write de mon eceur, I should not be able to write at all." 

The subject of this sketch was born near Winnsboro', S. C. Her 
father, Dr. K. S. Dargan, was descended from an old Virginia family, 
and was noted for his extremely elegant manners and unrivalled con- 
versational powers. Her mother was a native Charlestonian, of French 
Huguenot blood, a remarkably handsome and graceful lady. Clara 
inherits her mother's vivacity and love of repartee, fondness for society, 
her enthusiasm and romance, and her father's manners and conversa- 
tional powers. For some years the family lived on a plantation in 
Fairfield, and removed to Columbia in 1852, noted as one of the most 
beautiful cities in the whole country then! 

At the capital of South Carolina, with the exception of a year or 
so, resided Miss Dargan, until the death of her parents, her father 
dying in 1865, and the mother two years afterward, scattering the once 
happy and united family — for with the fall of the Confederacy their 
wealth vanished. 

Miss Dargan was for a time a pupil of Mrs. C. Ladd, who says : 
" She commenced writing when about ten years of age. I read a story 
written by her when about eleven ; it was worthy of the matured pen 
of twenty. Nature has endowed her with many rich gifts, which she 
has not failed to improve; the budding promise of childhood has 
expanded, scattering many literary gems over her pathway." 

Her first publication was a poem, " Forever Thine," in the " Cou- 
rant," a journal which flourished a brief time under the editorship of 
the lamented Howard H. Caldwell. It was signed " Claudia," and 
appeared in 1859. During the following year she wrote several stories 
for the " Southern Guardian," published in Columbia, under the nom 
de plume of " Esther Chesney," under which name she wrote for the 
" Southern Field and Fireside " in 1861. In this year she was a suc- 

491 



492 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

cessful competitor for the prize offered by the " Field and Fireside " 
for the best novelette — her story, " Helen Howard," sharing the honors 
with a novelette entitled " Our Little Annie." 

Encouraged by this success, she competed for the prize offered by 
the " Darlington Southerner," and was successful. 

In 1863, she -edited the literary department of the " Edgefield Adver- 
tiser," then under the control of that elegant scholar and gentleman, 
Colonel Arthur Simkins: his death dissolved her connection with 
it. She wrote for the " Field and Fireside " during the war, and after 
the close of the same was a contributor to the " Crescent Monthly," 
the ablest periodical ever published in the South, which was edited 
and published in New Orleans, by William Evelyn, for a short time 
only. In this magazine appeared " Philip : My Son," considered by 
many her best story. The late Henry Timrod said "that he con- 
sidered it equal to any story in ' Blackwood's.' " 

Miss Dargan never mixes " ego " with her stories. They are told so 
naturally that the writer is forgotten entirely in the narrative. As far 
as a " title " is an index to a story, we append the titles of a few of Miss 
Dargan's tales : " Nothing Unusual," " Still Faithful," " Coming 
Home," " Come to Life," " Judith," " Riverlands." 

" Charles Auchester," that delightful work of Miss Elizabeth Sara 
Sheppard, whose short life is one of the saddest of stories, is a great 
favorite with Miss Dargan. She considers it one of the few books that 
can be placed next to the " Holy Word." " It is a rare gem, an 
amethyst of the richest purple, set in the purest gold, chastely carved. 
It was and is a text-book on more subjects than music to me. So pure 
and earnest and calm and deep ! " 

Says she, in speaking of " Mendelssohn's Songs :" 

" All he ever wrote, is there such music anywhere, except in heaven ? 
People talk senselessly about Italian operas, and English and Scotch and 
Irish ballads ; these are all very well. I think there is an air or two from 
' Lucia,' and one from ' Lucretia Borgia,' and several from ' Ernani,' that 
are beautiful; but none will compare with those sublime, those soul-full 
creations." 

We have noticed Miss Dargan's musical talents, and music is a 
highly-developed talent in the family. Clara's two brothers and 
sisters are not only fine singers, but perform on several instruments; 
and of course she is a poet. The critic and talented gentleman, author 



CLARA V.. DAEGAN. 493 

(among other things) of a series of articles on " Southern Litterateurs " 
— Mr. J. W. Davidson, who was Miss Dargan's literary sponsor — says: 
" I rank Miss Dargan first in promise among the Southern daughters 
of song." In person, Miss Dargan is a tall, graceful figure, good eye, 
and expressive face when conversing. 

Said the late Henry Timrod : " If simplicity and pathos be poetry, 
'Jean to Jamie' is poetry of the most genuine stamp. The verses 
flow with the softness of a woman's tears." (1866.) 
Miss Dargan is teaching in Yorkville, S. C. 

1871. 



JEAN TO JAMIE. 



What do you think now, Jamie, 

What do you think now? 
'T is many a long year since we parted : 
Do you still believe Jean honest-hearted — 

Do you think so now? 

You did think so once, Jamie, 

In the blithe spring-time : 
" There's never a star in the blue sky 
That's half sae true as my Jamie," quo' I — 

Do you mind the time? 

We were happy then, Jamie, 

Too happy, I fear ; 
Sae we kissed farewell at the cottage door— 
I never hae seen you since at that door 

This many a year. 

For they told you lies, Jamie : 

You believed them a' ! 
You, who had promised to trust me true 
Before the whole world — what did you do? 

You believed them a' ! 

When they called you fause, Jamie, 

And argued it sair, 
I flashed wi' anger — I kindled wi' scorn, 
Less at you than at them ; I was sae lorn, 

I couldna do mair. 



494 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

After a bit while, Jamie, — 

After a while, 
I heard a' the cruel words you had said — 
The cruel, hard words ; sae I bowed my head — 

Na tear — na smile — 

And took your letters, Jamie, 

Gathered them a', 
And burnt them one by one in the fire, 
"And watched the bright blaze leaping higher — 

Burnt ringlet and a'! 

Then back to the world, Jamie, 

Laughing went I; 
There ne'er was a merrier laugh than mine : 
What foot could outdance me — what eye outshine? 

" Puir fool ! " laughed I. 

But I 'm weary o' mirth, Jamie — 

'T is hollowness a' ; 
And in these long years sin' we were parted, 
I fear I 'm growing aye colder-hearted 

Than you thought ava! 

I hae many lovers, Jamie, 

But I dinna care; 
I canna abide a' the nonsense they speak — 
Yet I 'd go on my knees o'er Arran's gray peak 

To see thee ance mair! 

I long for you back, Jamie, 

But that canna be ; 
I sit all alone by the ingle at e'en, 
And think o' those sad words : " It might hae been " — 

Yet never can be! 

D 'ye think o' the past, Jamie ? 

D 'ye think o' it now ? 
'Twad be a bit comfort to know that ye did — ■ 
Oh, sair would I greet to know that ye did, 

My dear, dear Jamie ! 



CLARA V. DAEGAN. 495 



SLEEPING. 

Go down, thou sun, nor rise again ; 
Sink low behind the purple hills, 
And shimmer over western rills, 

And gild the dusky moor and plain. 

Chant low, ye wildwood birds, chant low ; 
The cooing ringdove, so forlorn, 
Her parted mate as gently mourn, 

And thou, sad river, calmly flow. 

I sit beside the mossy mound 

That gently lies upon my dead ; 
And violets wave above his head, 

And daisies gem the dewy ground. 

The willow, like a mourning veil, 
Waves quietly above my grief: 
The very rustling of the leaf 

Against the ruined garden-pale 

Murmurs of him who sleepeth here 
As sweetly in his narrow bed, 
With roses pressed beneath his head, 

As if his mother's arms were there. 



FLIRTING WITH PHILIP * 

I saw my boy growing rapidly into manhood with the growth of his love. 
It was the first love of a strong and passionate nature, and a young man's 
first love so seldom has root in anything deeper than mere physical beauty. 
Margaret Thorpe was a woman to infatuate enthusiastic natures, especially 
of boys or very young men. There was a peculiar fascination about her 
rare loveliness — her manner, half childlike, half dignified — her winning 
voice, and willowy, graceful figure. At times I believed her utterly uncon- 
scious of Philip's sentiments toward her ; she seemed to meet his impulsive 
demonstrations so calmly, and look almost with surprise at any sudden out- 
burst of earnestness : but anon this changed; and when I saw her sitting 
with downcast eyes and drooping lash under the gaze which he fixed upon 
her, listening with that peculiar manner she knew so well to assume, and 
*From " Philip : My Son," (1866.) 



496 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

replying in a voice so tenderly cadenced, lifting her violet eyes to his, then J 
knew she felt and believed it. No woman could doubt such evidence. 

Philip seemed to grow taller and grander. There was a pride in his bear- 
ing ; the splendid Antinous-like head, the flashing eagle eye, the quivering 
finely-cut nostril, the mouth and chin shaped like a woman's in its delicate 
curves — all were touched with new fire, undying, immortal. As he dis- 
mounted from his horse at the gate and walked up the garden-path with his 
stately step, I heard Margaret, who was watching him from the- window, 
murmur to herself, " Philip, my king ! " Long years after I heard that same 
voice, broken by tears, chaunt an exquisite home-lyric, bearing a similar bur- 
den of love and pride, as she folded a tiny, white-robed Philip in her arms. 

They went out often together, sometimes on horseback, sometimes walking. 
On these latter excursions, Margaret frequently carried a little basket on her 
arm, filled with sandwiches and cake, and a bottle of home-made wine ; and 
Philip would take a fishing-rod, while out of the breast-pocket of his coat 
would peer the azure binding of Tennyson, the inevitable and invariable 
companion on all occasions, though I heard Philip declare laughingly he 
could not comprehend one word from preface to finis of the volume, except 
the poem quoted daily to the praise of his idol, " Margaret." What all this 
tended to I could not tell. I did not even know if Philip had declared his 
affection. Like one in a dream, I was content for all things to go on as they 
had done, and dreaded a change : but it came at last. 

Late one evening I was half dozing in my arm-chair by the sitting-room 
window. The day had been intensely warm, and the entire household ap- 
peared overpowered by some influence in the atmosphere. Philip had rid- 
den off before sunset. I saw him dashing down the avenue like one mad, 
and presently Margaret went up stairs with her light step, humming, in a 
mocking voice it seemed to me, a foolish little French chanson. I had left 
the two very good friends, in the veranda, after dinner, Philip smoking and 
playing with Margaret's ball of gold thread, while she sat demurely netting 
on that wonderful piece of work, half smoking-cap, half turban ; but some- 
how, these latter days, there was a provoking air about Margaret that seemed 
at times to goad Philip almost to desperation. I knew now she had been 
teasing him again — my poor boy, who had never been denied the smallest 
boon in all his short, bright life. 

From where I sat, I could see Margaret's white dress gleaming between 
the rose-vines as she sat on the steps of the piazza, half hid from view by 
thick clusters of multiflora and drooping sprays of clematis. She had a 
manuscript book in her hand — while her chin rested in the palm of the 
other, and her head was bowed in deep revery. There was a step on the 
gravel, and I heard her say, without raising her head, " Come here, Philip ! 
I have something to read to you;" and she read in a low, steady monotone, 
peculiarly impressive in its exquisite modulation — flowing on like the 
sound of water afar off. .... 



CLAEA V. DARGAN. 497 

She stopped, and it seemed like the breaking of a dream. Philip sat at Jier 
feet : I could not see his face, but I heard his quick breath come and go, as 
if he panted for relief. 

" Margaret," he exclaimed, in a hoarse voice, " don't torture me ! " 

"Torture you, Philip ? " 

"Yes, you know you do! Margaret, you have won me with your syren 
songs, and now you wreck me without a shadow of remorse or feeling." 

" It is not my fault that you love me ; I never encouraged you." 

" Not your fault ! " he exclaimed, in that passionate, uncontrollable man- 
ner which he so often used of late. "Not your fault? Did you not look 
up into my face with those beautiful eyes, and say plainly with them, again 
and again, that you accepted my love? Did you not flatter me with every 
cadence of your voice, every smile so deadly sweet, to believe that you knew 
and requited it? And now you call me to fawn at your feet, and listen to 
verses you knew would craze my very brain, and say it is not your fault that 
I love you ! Oh, Margaret ! Margaret ! " 

" Philip, you wrong me. Listen, for I will speak — " 

He interrupted her with a gesture eloquent of despair. " Don't, Marga- 
ret ! I know you are going all over those cruel words again — about my being 
younger than you, and how I surprise you, and the utter absurdity. All 
those words mean nothing to me. I don't believe any of it ! Just tell me 
now, once and forever, do you not love me at all — not at all ? " 

He leaned forward eagerly, and caught her hand. There was a brief 
silence ; and I waited to hear Margaret Thorpe speak. She only said, in a 
half-suppressed, breathless way, " I am engaged." 

I could not endure it. I rose from my seat and went out into the piazza, 
where the moon, lately risen, shed her clear, pure light over the two figures 
on the steps ; and I saw my boy sitting there as one stunned, looking straight 
into the false face before him — so fair, and yet so- false. 

" Margaret Thorpe," I said, " may God deal with you as you have dealt 
with my son." 




MISS MARIAN C. LEGARE REEVES. 

FADETTE" — the author of "Ingemisco" — is Miss Reeves. Her 
father is a native South Carolinian, and her mother of the Reed 
family of Delaware. She is a niece of Gen. Samuel Jones, of the late 
C. S. A., and>a niece of the Rev. Dr. Palmer, of the old Circular 
Church of Charleston ; consequently, a cousin of his nephew, the pres- 
ent Dr. B. M. Palmer, of New Orleans, to whom her book is dedicated. 
"Ingemisco " was published by Blelock & Co., New York, 1867. To 
quote from a poet critic of our " Southland " (C. Woodward Hutson) : 

" ' Ingemisco ' is the tale of a travelling party in Germany. Some of the 
descriptions are very able, picturesque in scenery-painting, and nervously 
sketched. The scene of the danger and rescue in the Alpine storm is 
admirable. The style is good, very fair indeed, with only a touch of femi- 
nine affectation, which will wear off as she writes more. There is plenty 
of that sweet glimmer and soft air-music of romance which we miss so much 
in most of the fiction of modern days ; and much that reminds of the pleas- 
ant mirth and genial love that charm us so gladsomely in 'Quits' and the 
' Initials.' There is a wild legend, too, told by the Swiss peasant-girl, Luise, 
of the ancient monastery and the anchorite's cave, which are connected with 
the fate of Margaret Ross, the heroine of the present tale. It is worthy of 
the wonderful legendary lore of old Deutschland, and is well told. It is 
something, in these dull, unbelieving days, to catch into the nostrils of the 
soul a breath of the witching fragrance of those delicious old superstitions ; 
and I bless the charming craftswoman that she has allowed this quaint em- 
broidery of Sir Walter's magic mantle to linger on her fair shoulder. Thank 
heaven, there is no pedantry ! It is all true woman throughout, with not a 
bit of the blue-stocking, only traces in plenty of close and artist-like obser- 
vation in travel and taste in reading. Knowledge is never obtruded. It is 
a great relief in these days to read clear English, unbroken by huge scientific 
technicalities or mythological allusions ad nauseam, as if the reader were to 
be put to school again through the medium of a book pretending to be one 
of amusement. 

" The characters are well conceived, and painted with great power. I mean 
the two, the only ones we ever care a button about in a real warm romance 
of love. Margaret is a proud, high-souled woman, a superb nature, with a 
world of tenderness in her heart, but with a world of scorn for any baseness, 
even though born of passionate love for her. The wrong done her by her 
lover in marrying her against her will, thus forcing her to break her plighted 
498 



MARIAN C. LEG A RE REEVES. 499 

word, rouses her strong nature, and shows the true woman better than almost 
any other trial of trust could show that wonderful mechanism of the affec- 
tions. Her Ernst, the gallant Polish exile, Count Zalkiewski, despite his 
one great error, for which he paid so dearly in her heart's estrangement from 
him, is a noble being, and interests the reader deeply. It is truly a wonder- 
ful book for the first. Much as 1 admire it, it is not half so good as she is. 
That winter visit I made to the great river region is bright in my memory 
with many a picture of the pleasant and hospitable homes of transplanted 
Carolina families. Among those carefully kept visions of a most charming 
tour, not the least refreshing is that which was lit by the smile of one who 
is now a princess in Parnassus. As I read her book I could not but rejoice 
that so true a heart-tale was written by neither Titanide nor Encyclopsede, 
but by a quiet, natural maiden, sweet and modest as the violet she loves." 

The " Round Table," New York, in a review of " Ingemisco," con- 
cludes by saying : 

" As a whole, this book contains so much that gives promise of future excel- 
lence, that we hope the authoress will not shrink from that steadfast and 
patient toil which alone can insure her, in the sequel, that enviable position 
to which, no doubt, she aspires." 

Another Northern reviewer says : 

" This book, if we do not greatly mistake, marks the advent of a new and 
very conspicuous star in the firmament of letters. 'Ingemisco' is an 
exceedingly clever performance in itself, and involves a promise of richer 
fruits in the future. The plot is conceived with originality and developed 
with skill, the characters are drawn with a bold and symmetrical pencil, the 
descriptions of still life are painted with peculiar gorgeousness of coloring, 
the dialogue is animated, and some of the situations strikingly dramatic, and 
the work is illuminated throughout with those subtle glimpses of scholarship 
which signalize a genuine culture as contradistinguished from the inapposite 
sputter of encyclopaedic empiricism. We wish to mark this last statement 
with the stress of a strong emphasis. In casually turning over the leaves of 
this book, the eye cannot fail of catching brief and pertinent citations from 
the most beautiful things in French, Italian, and German literature, and 
occasionally — as if with a hand deliberately restrained — from the ancient 
classics. In every instance, these citations are exactly and nicely appropriate 
to the person, the situation, and the circumstances — are, in short, an unpre- 
meditated outburst of the author's culture, at the point where they sponta- 
neously arise, and not an unnaturally contrived occasion for a palpably 
meretricious display. To say of a young American author that he brings 
to his initial effort in the department of fiction a highly-cultivated mind, is 
to mark an exceptional advantage, whose influence is second only to the 



500 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

possession of genius. But this last great quality is really the dominating 
feature of this book. It appears in every page, equally attested by colloquy, 
characterization, or description. In the very first chapter there is a descrip- 
tion of an Alpine storm, in which the life of the heroine is almost hopelessly 
involved, which we do not hesitate to affirm is one of the finest we have ever 
perused, notwithstanding the subject is equally attractive and familiar, and 
has exercised all manner of pens, from the ' Great Unknown ' to that vast 
company of little ones who yearly travel the road to oblivion, and contribute 
to the manufacture of trunks. 

" ' Ingemisco ' will remind every discriminating reader of those beautiful 
creations which shed, a few years ago, a splendid but fugitive halo around 
the world of letters — 'Initials' and 'Quits.' It is conceived mainly in 
the same vein as these charming productions. But the pen of ' Fadette ' is 
clearly distinguished from that of the gifted daughter of Lord Erskine, and 
is, in no respect that we can discover, imitative. On the contrary, its indi- 
viduality asserts itself constantly, almost to the degree of harshness. "We 
mention the resemblance in question only to indicate what seems to us the 
great fault of this book. The writer has attempted to condense an interesting 
story and a book of travels into the same volume. This will not do ; it never 
has done. And, so long as a person engaged in the perusal of a narrative 
dramatically conceived and evolved must consider it a nuisance to be abruptly 
interrupted by substituting a book of travels (however well written) for the 
one in his hands, it never will do. No examples, however distinguished, can 
justify such a departure from the fundamental laws of art. A novelist is 
entitled to incorporate into his story just so much of the merely outward 
conditions of the selected theatre of his fable as is indispensably necessary to 
the illustration of the supposed facts thereof: if he go beyond this, he is 
irrelevant — the interest flags — Homer sings of ships — the reader sleeps. 

" With this exception, we have only commendation for this admirable book ; 
and we cordially greet — shall we say, the fair authoress, as her nom de plume 
implies? — into the 'magic circle' where fairies dance upon the greensward 
and imagination weaves into forms palpable and real the colors of the 
rainbow." 

"Randolph Honor" was published by Richardson & Co., New 
York, (1868,) and was cordially welcomed by the reading world and 
literary journals. The "Round Table" said: 

" In ' Randolph Honor ' we have pictures of life which are not wanting in 
power, and descriptions of scenery drawn with truth and delicacy. The story 
is not sensational, and its moral tone is unexceptionable; but the plot is 
meagre, and the great difficulties of character-painting the authoress has not 
yet mastered 

" In this work, as in ' Ingemisco,' there appears so fair a promise of future 



MARIAN C. LEG A RE REEVES. 501 

excellence, that we feel justified in saying that the young authoress who 
produced them is capable, with increased cultivation and mature thought, of 
achieving something much better than she has yet offered to the public." 

And the "poet critic" must have his delightful talk about this 
delightful second book recorded : 

"'Bandolph Honor' is a marked improvement on ' Ingemisco.' The 
characters are ably drawn ; and, what is particularly pleasant in this age that 
gives us spasmodic portraitures for real dramatic delineation, they are ladies 
and gentlemen. The story is of the war, and is staunchly Southern, true to 
the ring of those noble tones that died away only when smothered in blood. 

" The style is faulty. It is injured by a somewhat glaring mannerism, 
resulting from a tendency to poetic inversion in the mode of expression. 
But this blemish will wear away as the young writer grows in practice. She 
is certainly versatile. This last work is totally different from 'Ingemisco.' 
She is clear, so far, of that vice of the too rapidly productive writers of fiction, 
whose novels troop out from the publishing-houses in such numbers we can- 
not keep the run of them — she does not repeat herself. There is, too, great 
variety in the story, and frequent changes of the locality, perhaps too fre- 
quent for the maintenance of the spell upon the reader ; for the attachment 
we form for places in actual life we carry with us into our ideal life, and Ave 
like fiction to hallow for us certain spots in association with the persons of 
the story who have won our liking, and not remove us too capriciously from 
the scenes thus endeared to us. 

" This principle is violated here. We are hurried from the charming 
Maryland manor-house, Eandolph Honor, to Baltimore ; from Baltimore to 
the Steamer ' St. Nicholas,' (the capture of which, by the way, is graphically 
described) ; from there and thereabouts to Charleston ; from Charleston to 
Arkansas ; and from Arkansas to all sorts of places — the prairies and else- 
where. But the novelty of scenery and of mode of life, I must say, compen- 
sate in a great measure for the distracted feeling one experiences in this flit- 
ting to and fro. The dramatic action is full of fire and motion. The lady is 
loved to the heart's content of the reader bent on his heroine's being duly hon- 
ored. The young men are dashing cavaliers, worthy of the sunny soil they fight 
for; and ' Miss Charley' is a dashing damsel, much nearer to Joan of Arc and 
the Maid of Saragossa than Dr. Simms' famous swamp-rider, 'Hurricane Nell.' 
The life in the Vv r est is a fine picture, and shows up well the strong contrasts 
of culture and roughness in a country of comparatively recent settlement. 
The darkey wedding is pleasantly described, and the feudal picture it pre- 
sents of mutual good feeling between beneficent suzerain and attached 
retainers, readily recognized by us, who have lived under the system, as truth 
itself, will do well to put alongside the present rancorous hate that glows from 
the pages of such as Helper of ' No- Joque.' 



502 LIVING FEMALE WEITBES OF THE SOUTH. 

" Need I say to you who have read the earlier work that the poetic soul of 
this lady delights in the sweet tenderness and fragrance and the bright bloom 
of the out-door world, which ought always to lift our hearts to the God who 
made it so lovely for us. Yes, she loves the good creatures that are so elo- 
quent, though to the material organ they may seem dull. She is of those 
' Sunday children ' who have the poetic instinct, and to whom nothing that 
the Divine artist has made is ever mute. Nature, with all its fulness of 
life and light and freshness, she dearly loves; and the blessed beauty and 
radiance and vocal melody with which it surges on the soul in a thousand 
soft wavelets of light and scent and sound, rippling rare undertones of har- 
mony into the dreamy recesses of the heart, draw from her ever and anon 
tributes of love and praise, and a glad poetic dallying with its wondrous 
richness in change and varying form." 

" Ingemisco " was written with no idea of publication — merely to 
lighten some heavy hours of the war-time for the author's home 
circle ; and " Eandolph Honor," though with imaginary characters, 
is, regarding war-incidents, drawn from sketches of that which came 
within the author's own experience or knowledge. 

" Fadette's " last publication bears the imprint of Claxton, Kemsen 
& Haffelfinger, and is called "Sea-Drift." 

Miss Reeves is residing in New Castle, Delaware. 

1869. 



FLORXDE CLEMSON. 

MISS CLEMSON is a granddaughter of John C. Calhoun, and a 
native of Pendleton Village, S. C. She is the author of a little 
work entitled " Poet-Skies, and other Experiments in Versification," 
by"C. deFlori." 

Miss Clemson is married to a Mr. Lea, and is residing in New York. 
1870. 



ANNIE M. BARNWELL. 

MISS BARNWELL is one of the youngest of our " Southland 
Writers," and one who desires to make " literature " her profes- 
sion. 

Annie M. Barnwell is a native of Beaufort, S. C, the eldest daugh- 
ter of Thomas Osborn Barnwell — until the war, a planter of that 
place. She was educated entirely in the quiet town of her birth, and, 
until the war, had seldom quitted it. 

From earliest childhood she was passionately fond of reading, and 
the world of books was a delightful reality to her. Her life has been 
spent in a narrow circle ; and, until the war, it was a very quiet one ; 
but no Southerner can have passed through the last eight years with- 
out thinking and feeling deeply and passionately. 

Although fond of writing from childhood, noted as the best compo- 
sition writer in school, she never published anything until 1864, when 
a poem appeared in a local journal. In the spring of 1866, encour- 
aged by the approval of Rev. George G. Smith, of Georgia, she wrote 
for publication under the norm de plume of "Leroy," a name chosen 
as a slight tribute of love and respect to the memory of one who held 
the first place on her list of friends, the late accomplished Dr. Leroy 
H. Anderson, of Gainesville, Alabama. 

Lender this signature she has been a frequent contributor to " Scott's 
Magazine," (Atlanta,) and the " Land we Love," (Charlotte, N. C.) 
To the kind and generous conduct of General D. H. Hill, editor of 
the latter-named magazine, Miss Barnwell owes much, for it encour- 
aged her to persevere in her intention of becoming an author, when 
the difficulties which lie in the path of every beginner would other- 
wise, perhaps, have frightened her into turning back. 

Miss Barnwell's style is easy and graceful, with the fault of young 
writers generally, using the " adjectives " profusely. Her most ambi- 
tious effort is a tale, entitled " Triumphant," which we hope may be 
the beginning of many triumphs in the path she has chosen. She is 
teaching in Waynesboro, Burke County, Georgia. 

1871. 

503 



504 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 



ON SOUTHEKN LITERATUKE. 

Hitherto the South has contributed a comparatively small share to the 
great mass of American publications. This was, perhaps, owing to the truth 
of that old opinion that poverty is the soil best calculated to render talent 
and genius fruitful, not to produce them, for they are rare plants, peculiar 
to no soil, no climate, and no season ; but merely to stimulate them to a fairer 
growth, and to ripen their rich and varied fruit. We were a prosperous 
people ; our slaves were carefully housed, fed, and clothed by the masters, 
who were their protection from those blessings of the free children of pov- 
erty, exposure, starvation, and nakedness. We were not obliged to write for 
our daily bread, and so many who, under other circumstances, would have 
wielded a successful pen, were content, instead, to satisfy the cravings of 
their intellect with copious draughts from the cup of knowledge prepared by 
other hands. Now the case is widely different. Never, perhaps, in the 
annals of the world, were there so many people of education, culture, and 
refinement suddenly reduced at the same moment to such a state of absolute 
and painful poverty. In this condition there is but one alternative — we 
must work or starve : but where is work to be obtained such as we can per- 
form ? Many of us have received the best advantages of education, and 
with such, food for the mind is a necessity second only to that of food for the 
body. They cannot get books ; and if they could, time is too needful for the 
task of earning bread, to be spent in anything which does not aid in that ob- 
ject. In this emergency, they seize the pen, and become authors. Eagerly, 
hungrily they write, striving to feed body and mind at once; now dis- 
heartened by the frequent failure of their efforts, now cheered by a feeble 
gleam of success, but always struggling on for bare existence. Chatterton, 
poor, lonely, gifted boy, insulted, proud, and shut in by so dark a sky, might 
well serve as the type of those who will one day be remembered and honored 
as the founders of a Southern literature. 

And it is now, while we are thus at the commencement of our work, that 
no effort should be spared to lay a sure and strong and pure foundation, that 
will resist time and change and decay. Is it poetry that is needed to call 
forth our highest efforts ? Surely, we can scarcely have it in a fuller meas- 
ure than at present. Is it education and refinement ? We will never have 
more than is ours to-day. Is it love of country, and the wish to twine a 
wreath of immortal bays to crown her brow? Ah! never in her brighter 
days of pride and hope did we love our sunny land as now, in her hour of 
woe and desolation — never did we long more^eagerly to do her honor. Is 
it a noble, animating spirit, the sight of gallant deeds and priceless sacri- 
fices, of heroes and of martyrs ? Surely, surely the memory of our glorious 
struggle has not faded yet — we have not yet forgotten the heroes and mar- 
tyrs, the victories and the sacrifices, the noble deeds and the fearless deaths 



MARY CAROLINE GRISWOLD. 505 

that marked our brief day of freedom. Or is it examples of faith and trust 
and self-forgetfulness, of dignity, manliness, and stainless honor that we 
crave? Look, oh! look around you, and in the lives of thousands of our 
suffering people you will find examples of all these as fair and as bright as 
the record of the heroes and martyrs of other days — the Cranmers, Bidleys, 
and Latimers, the Hoopers, John Bradfords, and Anne Askews, whose names 
shine like stars amidst the darkness of cruelty, sin, and oppression by which 
they are surrounded. 



>>K< 



MARY CAROLINE GRISWOLD. 

IN" 1864, the "Southern Field and Fireside" published several nov- 
elettes and poems, by " Carrie," which were interesting and natu- 
rally written, and consequently popular. " Zaidee : A Tale of the 
Early Christians," was a very pleasing story ; as was " Bannockburn," 
the longest of these novelettes. 

"Carrie," or, rather, Miss Griswold, is rather young, as yet, to have 
made much progress in the literary line ; although, from her published 
novelettes, etc., we feel warranted in giving her a place among " South- 
land Writers," as a writer of much promise. 

Miss Griswold is a resident of Charleston, S. C. 



THE WHITE CAMELIA. 

Circled with glossy leaves, in queenly power 
Rested in its purity the marble flower : 
No balmy fragrance swept the silent air, 
A dream of sweetness only lingered there, 
Like to a loving heart that stands alone 
With o'er each gushing thought a silence thrown 
'Neath the snow-drifts of pride it calmly lies, 
Lives in the world awhile, then droops and dies ; 
Alone with an inward grief that none divine, 
It, like the flower, falls without a sign : 
Fit emblem thus of pride in all its power, 
In dreamy stillness lay — the marble flower I 

64 



MISS JULIA C. MINTZING. 

JULIA CAROLINE MINTZING, the subject of this sketch, comes 
from one .of the most prominent and highly respected families of 
South Carolina. She is a thorough Southern woman, and she has that 
intensity of character that distinguishes those women of the South 
who are truly representatives of their section. By ancestry and 
nativity a South-Carolinian — her father and mother both having been 
born in that State — it is not strange that Miss Mintzing should possess 
that self-consciousness of the Carolinian, which, carried in the persons 
of statesmen into the political arena of the country, has done so much 
to mould the public opinion of the Sputh, and, indeed, of Democrats 
everywhere. In these days of woman-rightism — when the weaker sex 
tilt against the sterner, mounted upon the hobby of Reform — it would 
perhaps seem invidious to refer to our sister as one who has always 
taken a deep and absorbing interest in the politics of the country. 
But the interest which Miss Mintzing, even from early childhood, has 
ever manifested in the political questions of the day, has arisen, we 
may presume, from the necessities of the case. Reared in that fierce 
school of States Rights which admits of no parleying and no compro- 
mise, it would not be singular to find one embodying in herself all the 
proud traditions of her State, giving to the cause, which in South Ca- 
rolina partakes almost of the sanctity of a religious creed, her enthusi- 
astic reverence. As the French would say, ga va sans dire. This, 
however, in passing. 

In contemplating Miss Mintzing as a writer — our main purpose — 
we must judge her not so much by what she has done as by her capa- 
bilities and her promise of future performance. Her writings, up to 
within a recent period, have not been voluminous. Circumstances 
which so many tenderly nurtured of the South have had reason to 
deplore — the desolations produced by war and rapine — have had 
much to do with Miss Mintzing's literary efforts. The losses sustained 
by her family during the war were severe. Happily, the subject of 
this sketch has found it within her power to call upon her mental 
armory for weapons wherewith to resist the too pressing encroach- 
506 



JULIA C. MINTZIN6. 507 

ments of pecuniary adversity. She has found place for her writings 
in some of the best magazines and literary papers of the country, and 
in the pages and columns of these has laid the seeds of a reputation 
which only needs time to insure its blossoming into fame. 

From Miss Mintzing's writings we give two selections, one of poetry, 
and the other of prose. We commence with the poem : 

VICTOR AND VICTIM. 

Only a lance in her quivering breast, 
Fatally poised in the tourney's jest, 
Only a wreck on life's stormiest sea 
Wildly adrift for Eternity ! 
Only a shade on a summer sky, 
Only the break of a careless tie, 
Only a prayer — Father — God! 
Her passionate cry beneath the rod! 

Comfort her, Lord ! 

Shield with thy sword 
From all who oppress, 
From all who distress. 

Man and his falsity, 

Pettiest mockery ! 

Woman the slanderer, 

Friend, foe, and panderer — 
Grant her redress ! 

Why did she pause for the Lorelei's song? 
Why did she listen and dream so long ? 
Why was she blind to the dazzling snare 
That lured her on to the end so sair ? 
Why were the eyes so tender and blue — 
And the trysting vows that seemed so true ! 
Why the soft touch — the passionate thrill, 
And the lips that kissed away reason's will ! 

Back, ye sweet memories ! 

Off, ye fond reveries ! 
Hark to the world ! 

She is but human — 

Only a woman I 

So crush all feeling, 

Weakness revealing, 

For we are maskers, 

Hypocrite taskers I 



508 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Life a poor summer day, 

And we the potter's clay 

Toys to be hurled ! 

Was he so brave thus to tilt for her life — 

Was he a man in this dalliance-strife ? 

Flash shield and buckler — blaze helmet and lance 

Quick to this tourney — valiant advance! 

But the hand that is poising with steadiest aim 

Shall quiver with weakness and tremble with pain 

When the ghosts of those moments swoop fierce from unrest, 

And falsehood's Nemesis holds hell in his breast I 

True, 't is but a lance 

In the road's advance, 

And but a woman 

Proves to be human ! 

Only a heart 

Breaks in the jesting ; 

'T is but a part 
Played in life's testing ! 

Then pity her, God, 

As faint, 'neath Thy rod, 

Weary in the agony, 

She treads her Calvary ! 

As a writer of prose, Miss Mintzing is just as earnest in her style 
and in her manner of expressing herself as she shows herself to be in 
her poetry. Indeed, this earnestness of character is one of her marked 
attributes. We can well imagine that she would be one to rejoice in 
the courage of Joan of Arc and in the devoted patriotism of Charlotte 
Corday — choosing these as memorable examples of the heroism of 
her sex. 

In an article upon Goethe and Schiller, the illustrious German 
authors, published in the "Land we Love," Miss Mintzing compares 
these two masters of the literature of Germany. The following pas- 
sages from the article in question will afford a fair understanding of 
Miss Mintzing's characteristics as a writer of prose : 

The old city of Frankfort on the Main claims the birth of Johann Wolf- 
gang Von Goethe, August 28th, 1749. Sprung from the aristocracy, nursed 
and petted by his beautiful child-mother, his bright, sunny childhood passed. 

Impressionable and fiery, we find him, while yet a boy, agonized by the in- 
tensitv of his first love. 






JULIA C. MOTZING. 509 

But the heart that through a long life was only to dispense successively, 
did not break ; though the boy-love has, with the boy-faith, so exquisitely 
idealized the heroine's name in that Faust which thrilled all Germany. De- 
spite the ethics of the poem-drama, which the "rigid righteous" so vehe- 
mently decry, the sweet, girlish trust, the faith and pathos of Margaret's 
love, hold the heart against all judgment. 

The pretty poetry of Mignon's episode in Wilhelm Meister pleases, and 
the refrain of her child-sorrow is still echoing in our hearts, as she pleads 
for her return to that sunny land where " the gold-orange blooms ; " but 
Margaret, man's spiritualized earth-love, attracts with a sad, sweet witchery 
which holds us spell-bound as only Goethe's genius can — lifts us far above 
the fault, and wrong, and sin, though the hard world thundered its code as 
the organ rolled the "Dies Irae," and faint and weary the broken lily fell at 
the cathedral gates. 

But the perfection of Gcethe's womanhood is seen in his conception of 
Clara — the Clara of " Egmont." Here again the characteristic rather 
than the morale must appeal ! — aye the strength of the passionate devotion 
of this Amy Robsart of Germany wakens for her an all-absorbing interest. 
In Margaret, the trust, and clinging, girlish love, are most prominent — the 
development born of the dangerous guile of the accomplished man of the 
world; but in Clara it is Egmont's inspiration — the passion called to life by 
the gallant soldier, brilliant noble, and impetuous lover. Her little songs 
are exquisite ; breathing sometimes a witching coquetry, and always her un- 
selfish devotion. In this drama, less metaphysical than Faust, the scenes 
are graphic, and the stirring history of the revolt of the Netherlands moves 
almost as a living spectacle. 

Some of Egmont's soliloquies rise into all the grandeur of the truly ma- 
jestic German, and the famous prison reflection is unsurpassed by anything 
which even Shakspeare has left to us. 

An English writer, comparing the Juliet of Shakspeare with Schiller's 
Thekla, has remarked that in Juliet is found an " infinity of love," but in 
Thekla " an eternity ; " and in truth the womanly characteristics are wonder- 
fully developed in this rare gallery. Sweet, trustful Margaret pleads her 
faith-love — for even when dying, her lips fashion the name of her beloved ; 
Clarchen, with more of the strength of passion, exhibits the fathomless 
depths of her intenser nature; while Thekla, Schiller's pifre, self-sacrificing 
girl-patriot, passes away in the music of her broken heart, as she murmui*s 
her exquisite farewell, in the sweet, sad line, 

" Ich habe gelebt, und geliebet ! " 

And this, his earliest and most spirituelle creation, recalls another of the 
great lights which brightened the eighteenth century. 

John Christopher Frederic Von Schiller was born on the tenth of No- 



510 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

vember, 1759, at Marbach on the Neckar. And what a contrast his infancy 
and boyhood present, when compared with the cloudless happiness of Goethe's 
life. Born in poverty, and educated at a military-monastic school, he was 
restricted from all intercourse with women ; for Charles, Duke of Wurtem- 
berg, thought it most conducive to the intellectual development of his bene- 
ficiaries to allow only the visits of mothers and very young sisters. Heart- 
food and brain-food were alike dusty books ; and we find the talent which, 
in the future, was to give us Don Carlos, Marie Stuart, Thekla, and the 
thrilling drama of William Tell, diligent in the study of physic and juris- 
prudence. 

But the soul of the thirsting neophyte panted for its native element, and 
we watch him through the stolen hours of the night, revelling in what was 
to make his fame throughout the world. 

And now the student-life passes away, and we find the independent Ger- 
man spirit boldly and bravely struggling for freedom of thought ; and un- 
willing to submit to the sway and espionage of his old patron, he escaped 
from the army, and then appeared " The Bobbers," the first-born of that 
wonderful intellect, and a drama of rare talent and marvellous power. 

Afterward came Don Carlos, Marie Stuart, Wallenstein, Piccolomini, Re- 
volt of United Netherlands, and, as the last effort and crowning glory, Wil- 
liam Tell. The story of Don Carlos, as told by Prescott, in his simple and 
beautiful English, is familiar to all; but the grace and eloquence of the 
love-passages in the drama require all the fiery imagination of this grand 
old master. Marie Stuart, as portrayed by Schiller, has all the womanly 
dignity with which we love to associate the beautiful Queen of Scotland. 
The garden scene has become world-renowned since Ristori's perfect render- 
ing and gentle accents have thrilled two continents with their eloquence. 

In preparing himself for Wallenstein and the Piccolomini, Schiller col- 
lected material for the Revolt of the United Netherlands, a period with 
which we are now well acquainted through the researches of the terse and 
elegant Prescott and tireless Motley. 

Schiller's life differs entirely from that of his great compeer ; for Goethe, 
with his rare beauty, seemed born to happiness; while his joyous, expansive 
heart, ever life-giving, received and gave forth without ceasing, emphatically 
an absolvent, and, whirled on by destiny, he dispensed what might be called 
his life-charities : receiving always a more costly recompense, as Gretchen, 
Frederica, and a hundred others answer to the roll-call of his unresisting 
and irresistible heart. 

But of all the many, the history of Frederica, the timid, shy, yet loving 
maiden, stands conspicuous in her sweet, forgiving sorrow; a mute, appeal- 
ing rebuke to the faithless poet. Through long years of neglect and forget- 
fulness, still she clung to this grand passion of her life : and when wooed, 
her reply was, 

" The heart that has once been Goethe's, can never be another's." 



JULIA C. MINTZING. 511 

Schiller, differently situated, had life's hard realities to struggle against ; 
for poverty, with its iron grasp, had seized him, and he had little time for 
love's dalliance or its joys; in fact, his early isolation from women told 
plainly in his writings, and his heart-impressions were neither many nor in- 
spiring : therefore we are not surprised at his friendship — love-marriage. 
Whether the heart of this mighty German could have been otherwise waken- 
ed, remains a mystery ; but certainly the perfection of womanly passion has 
never been evidenced in his heroines. 

Schiller generally wrote at night, strengthened by very strong coffee : 
this was the habit of a lifetime, and to and fro, through the cold German 
midnights, would he pace his room, while the grand conceptions of his mag- 
nificent intellect were dreamed into realities. 

But the battle, the toil, and the wear of a troubled existence told upon 
him while yet in the flush of his manhood. An earnest spirit, disdaining 
the mean and the sensual, his strivings were after the pure, the true, and 
the good ; and as his last-born, his farewell benison to his fatherland, he be- 
queathed his great drama of William Tell. 

Who that has read this does not feel his pulses quicken, as the splendid 
talent of the author does noble battling for the right? and, as the last flush 
on the Riitli dies along the Swiss heavens, we feel Schiller's spirit floating 
upward in its light. 

As the one illustrates the German genius, so the other stands colossal as 
the German talent. 

Even the personal appearance of the men seems to speak their especial 
characteristics. Goethe was tall and majestic, the handsome man of Ger- 
many ; with that marvellous beauty which lit every lineament with the reflex 
of his soul : and Schiller, towering in his rugged outlines, large-featured and 
irregular, yet always bearing the impress of the great intellect that swayed 
him with imperial rule. 

But they both have passed where, to use Schiller's own language, 

" Word is kept with Hope, and to wild Belief a lovely truth is given." 

And the old German is singing still their echoes — the delicious thrilling 
minor, and the vibrating, heart-stirring bass — a grandly weird symphony, 
born in the wild German mountains, and nursed by the blue, rippling Rhine. 

Again we listen to the sweet Minnesingers, and again we bow in reverence 
to the magnificent hymns of the seventeenth century: now the spell of 
Goethe's genius lures us, and anon Heine's silvery music wilders, as did his 
own beautiful Lorelei. The soul-chants of Schiller waken and vibrate to the 
very depths of the spirit; while Kremer, fiery, impassioned, freedom-loving 
Kremer, shields us with that last hymn, born while his immortality hovered 
on the brink of destiny. 

And so the mighty host passes onward, onward ! marshalled into the far 



512 LIVING FEMALE WRITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

eternity ; but their teachings remain forever in our hearts, and as an inspi- 
ration from them echoes the sentiment, 

"Whoever with an earnest soul 

Strives for some end, from this low world afar 
Still upward travels though he miss the goal, 
And strays — but toward a star ! " 

Miss Mintzing's personal presence is very attractive. She is of a 
distingue appearance, somewhat above the medium height, graceful in 
the extreme, and denotes in every gesture the lady of culture and re- 
finement. In conversation, she is earnest; bordering, sometimes, on 
the enthusiastic — especially upon subjects connected with her State 
and section — and dispenses a great deal of her own magnetism to 
those with whom she converses. Her social tastes lead her to pleasure 
and gayety; and in the drawing-room she is an acknowledged orna- 
ment. She is rather of an Italian type, being a brunette of a clear 
and soft complexion. Her eyes are dark, and her hair is dark-brown 
and lustrous. 

Since the war, Miss Mintzing has resided chiefly in New York. As 
a writer, her future lies before her. We do not doubt, if she should 
choose to follow the thorny paths of literature, that she will establish 
herself among the authors of the South whose reputations will be 
something more than ephemeral. Hitherto she has never published 
under her own name. 

1869. Charles Dimitry. 



JEANIE A. DICKSON. 

MISS DICKSON, daughter of Dr. Samuel Henry Dickson, an emi- 
nent physician, formerly of Charleston, has published considerable 
in prose and verse in different magazines. She was among the con- 
tributors to " Russell's Magazine," Charleston, and recently to several 
Southern journals. Her residence is in Philadelphia. 
1S70. 



MES. LAURA GWYN. 

THE life of this gifted lady has been as remarkable as her poetry- 
has been sweet and brilliant. Without ambition, without seem- 
ing to be conscious of her genius, her days have been spent in seclusion 
from society, and devoted to her household affairs. 

Her father, Samuel G. McClanahan, was related to Chief Justice 
•Marshall. Laura was born in Greenville, S. C, September 18th, 1833. 
She was educated at the academy of her native place. While at 
school, at the age of twelve years, she began to write in verse, and 
would present her compositions in verse instead of prose; and a 
number of years ago published a volume of poems, which attracted 
attention. 

Hon. Wm. C. Preston, and Paul H. Hayne, the poet, have spoken 
in terms of praise of her poems and genius. 

Mrs. Gwyn has a large number of poems in manuscript. 

At a youthful age she married the Rev. T. D. Gwyn, a Baptist 
clergyman. They reside on a farm near Greenville. 

1871. - Ex-Got. B. F. Perry. 

MY PALACE OF DREAMS. 

Far hidden away from the pomp and glare 

Of this dreary world where we droop and pine, 

Wrapt in soft shadows and balmy air, 

In a land that is always green and fair 
Stands my palace of dreams divine! 

And whatsoever of change or woe 

The years may bring me, I know, I know 

They never can darken my palace of dreams ! 

For e'en as a cloud in the sunset rolled, 

Is turned to colors of crimson and gold, 
So each thought-flower that hither I bear 
Drinks the dew and is kissed by the air,. 

Spreads its petal, and glows and gleams 

With the magical hue of my palace of dreams, 
My beautiful palace of dreams. 

In this charmed palace, so fair, so fair, 
A wonderful spring-time reigns alway: 
65 513 



514 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Here are sweet June roses to wreathe the hair, 

Buds of April, and flowers of May ! 
Flowers, flowers with dewdrops deftly hung — 

Under their jewels they glisten and glow, 
Under their jewels they sparkle and quiver — 
And wearing these I forget that ever 

Hearts were broken or hopes laid low — 

I forget all sorrow, and only know 
That life was sweet when I was young! 

For deep in the shade, with a liquid flow, 

The beautiful fabled Lethean river 
Goes by my palace of dreams. 

The voice of a bird in the twilight singing 
Its early song with dewy throat, 

The drowsy hum of a glad bee winging 
Its homeward flight from flowers remote, 
Is not more sweet than the sounds that float, 
Moving wind-like, evermore 
Through each long shady corridor — • 

Soft echoes borne from the vale of youth, 
Voices that gladdened me long ago, 
Passionate vows that were murmured low, • 

Full of tenderness, love, and truth ! 
But all things evil that darken my soul — 
Thoughts of sorrow and sounds of dole — 

Can enter not: they have found a grave 

Under the shimmering Lethean wave 
That flows by my palace of dreams. 

Clothed with soft raiment of poesy, 

There are forms that move with stately paces ! 
And looking forth from each niche I see, 
Smiling welcome and love to me, 

Wonderful faces! wonderful faces! 
And lo ! through all this palace of mine 

The sweet rhymes wander — ballad and song, 
Quaint and merry, and many a time, 

On the wings of some melody glad and strong, 
My soul is borne to the innermost shrine, 

To the chambers fair that are furnished meet 

With Lydian music faint and sweet, 

For the ingoing of Love's light feet 
In my beautiful palace of dreams ! 



CATHARINE GENDEON P O Y A S. 515 

The silken poppy with drooping head, 
The lotus blossom and myrtle spray, 
And heavy roses of white and red 
Hang over the portals cool and gray 
Of my beautiful palace of dreams ! 
And tenderly, tenderly evermore, 
Love meets my soul at the open door — 
The sweet, lost love of the days of yore, 
That lives in my palace of dreams! 

There, served forever by memory, 

The fair immutable love of mine, 
Forgotten by all the world save me, 
Weareth its immortality, 
Is crowned with its immortality 

In my palace of dreams divine ! 
In this world of shadows alone, alone, 

Whatever of sorrow or pain I dree, 

Let no soft heart have pity for me, 
Let no sweet soul for me make moan, 

For have I not Love in my palace of dreams ! 
All gorgeous music 'tis mine to hear! 
All pleasure roses 'tis mine to wear! 
And I softly live and I daintily fare 
With Love in my palace of dreams ! 



>X^< 



MISS CATHARINE GENDRON POYAS. 

THE author of the "Year of Grief," (published in*1870 by Walker, 
Evans & Cogswell, Charleston,) is not a literary character, but a 
woman who, from the shade of retired life, has ventured twice to launch 
a little skiff on the ocean of letters, leaving them to float or sink at the 
mercy of the wind and wave. 

Her first volume, entitled "Huguenot Daughters, and other Poems," 
was published in 1849 ; but few copies were read beyond Charleston, 
or the shores of South Carolina, Miss Poyas' native State. 

Miss Catharine G. Poyas was born in Charleston, a daughter of the 
" Ancient Lady," who, it will be remembered by many Charlestonians, 
was held in high estimation, under that nom de plume, for her literary 



516 LI VI KG FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

attainments and popular contributions to the leading journals of her 
day. The subject of this sketch was educated in Charleston, first by 
the Misses Ramsay, and afterward by the South Carolina Society 
School, under that accomplished teacher, Miss Anna Frances Simonton, 
of New York. This lady dying of yellow fever in 1827 or '28, Miss 
Poyas then left school and continued her studies alone, her own energy 
and love of learning supplying the need of a school-mistress. 

At an early age she began to make verses, which were circulated 
among admiring friends. It was not, however, by impulse of genius 
alone, that she became a poetess ; reading with her being not a mere 
pastime, but a study for mental improvement: she cultivated her mind 
diligently by devoting herself to English literature, not skimming over, 
but mastering works of history, theology, biography, and poetry — 
these w r ere her chief studies, the fruits of which are offered to the 
public in her interesting volume, " The Year of Grief." 

This volume seems to have been chiefly produced during and since 
the late war ; and a very large proportion of the poems have been in- 
spired by the events in its progress ; sometimes full of hope and exul- 
tation, but more frequently a wail over its disastrous incidents and 
deadly results. It records, indeed, many years of grief instead of one. 
The first poem in the collection, which gives its title to the book, consists 
of a series of memorial sonnets, in which the author laments the losses 
in a single year of the good and great which her circle had known. 
These sonnets are all graceful of expression, tender, feeling, and deeply 
suffused with religious sentiment — a sentiment, by the way, which 
infuses every verse issuing from the author's pen. 

The sonnet which follows is one of the prettiest and most perfect 
things in the volume ; very sweet, graceful, and fanciful, the religious 
sentiment being still happily blended with the poetical. Indeed, in 
none of the verses of our author do we ever find them separated. She 
sings always either before the altar or at the grave. 

"Pure as a moonbeam sleeping on the sea, 
Or playing in the chalice of a flower 
In some romantic fairy- cultured bower, 

Seems thy sweet maiden presence unto me, 

With its soft light, and holy witchery 
Of Christian graces ; the peculiar dower 
Of stern affliction, which in Life's young bower 

Put out the sun and left sad night to thee, 



1870. 



S E LIN A E. MEANS. 517 

Yet not a night of darkness and of gloom — 
Bright, solemn stars look from its deep blue sky, 

And silvery moonbeams ripple and illume 
Thy path else dreary, and allure thine eye 

To where thy friend, amid perpetual bloom, 
Awaits thy coming in the realm on high." 



3^< 



SELINA E. MEANS. 

THE future will discover the justice in admitting Mrs. Means among 
the " Writers of the South." 

" Keminiscences of York, by a Septuagenarian," is Mrs. Means most 
popular contribution to the literature of the day. The material for these 
reminiscences Mrs. Means gathered from her father, Dr. Moore, who 
for years has been a collator of Revolutionary anecdotes, and is the 
author of a pamphlet of considerable historical value, "A Life of Gen. 
Edward Lacey," forming a nucleus for the history of the partisan 
warfare of Upper Carolina in the Revolutionary war. 

The style and matter of these " Reminiscences " proving popular, 
Mrs. Means became a competitor for a prize offered by a Carolina 
literary paper. Her novelette did not receive the prize, but was ac- 
cepted and paid for by the proprietor. The title of this story is 
"Unknown." She has other and more ambitious literary ventures 
completed and in preparation. 

Mrs. Means was born April 21st, 1840, in Union District, S. C. 
From both parents she has a right to the pen of a ready writer. Her 
father's literary talent has been alluded to ; and her mother was a 
sister of Dr. Josiah C. Nott, now of New York, formerly of Mobile, a 
distinguished physician and surgeon, and author of " The Types of 
Mankind," etc., etc., and of the late Prof. Henry Junius Nott, of 
the College of South Carolina, and author of two volumes of tales, 
called " Novelettes of a Traveller ; or, Odds and Ends from the 
Knapsack of Thomas Singularity, Journeyman Printer." These tales 
were taken from life, and exhibit in a style 'of much humor the happy 
faculty possessed by Mr. Nott of catching every odd trait of character 
that presented itself. Prof. Nott and his wife were lost in the wreck 
of the unfortunate steamer " The Home," off the coast of North 
Carolina, October 13th, 1837. 



518 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Mrs. Means is the wife of Dr. T. Sumter Means, of Glenn's Spring, 
South Carolina. 
1871. 



LOUISA S. McCOED. 

MRS. McCOED, the daughter of Langdon Cheves, Esq., well 
known in the public and political history of the State, was born 
December 3d, 1810, in Charleston. She was educated in Philadelphia. 
In 1840, Miss Cheves was married to D. J. McCord, of Columbia, S. C. 
In 1855 Mrs. McCord became a widow. Her residence is Columbia, 
South Carolina. 

Mrs. McCord's writings have consisted principally of essays and 
reviews, and she has written well on the difficult subject of political 
economy. 

Her published volumes are:] 

My Dreams. A volume of poems, published in Philadelphia in 1848. 

Sophisms of the Protective Policy. A translation from the French 
of Bastiat. Published in New York. 1848. 

Caius Gracchus. A five-act tragedy. New York. 1851. 

Mrs. McCord was a contributor to the " Southern Quarterly Eeview," 
and the "Southern Literary Messenger," for a number of years from 
1849. 

"Mrs. McCord's poetry is simply and clearly uttered, and is the 
expression of a healthful nature. Her tragedy of ' Caius Gracchus,' a 
dramatic poem for the closet, is balanced in its philosophy and argu- 
ment, Cornelia wisely tempering the democratic fervor of her son. 
Many sound, pithy aphorisms of conduct may be extracted from this 
piece; all expressed with purity and precision. The character of 
Cornelia is well sustained." 



1871. 



>"&<< 



MES. MAEY C. EIOK 

MES. EION resides in Winnsboro, S. C. Has published one 
volume on floriculture, entitled "The Ladies' Southern Florist.' , 
12mo. Columbia, 1860. 
1871. 






MARYLAND. 

ANNE MONCURE CRANE. 

NEW and Original Novel " was the heading of an article in 
the " Boston Transcript," written by E. P. Whipple, the 
essayist, in which he says : 



The most notable characteristic of this boot, published by Ticknor & 
Fields, entitled ' Emily Chester,' is its originality, and it will give novel- 
readers a really novel impression. All the usual elements of romantic 
interest are avoided, and new elements, heretofore but slightly hinted in 
English novels, are made the substance of the work. Since Goethe's ' Elec- 
tive Affinities,' we are aware of no story in which the psychology of excep- 
tional sentiment and passion is represented with such keenness and force as 
in ' Emily Chester.' The play of sympathy and antipathy, in recesses of the 
mind where will exerts no controlling influence, is exhibited with a patient, 
penetrating, and intense power, which fastens the reader's somewhat reluc- 
tant and resisting attention, and compels him to take interest in what has 
no natural hold on his healthy sympathies. The character of Emily Chester 
is not a pleasing one, but it is deeply conceived and vigorously developed. 
Max Crampton and Frederic Hastings are also types of character strongly 
individualized, and the contrasted magnetism they exert on the mind and 
heart of the heroine is vividly represented. The interest and power of the 
novel are concentrated in these three persons. The other characters are 
rather commonplace, and seem to be thrown in simply to give relief to the 
passions of the principal personages. In those parts in which the author is 
not analyzing and representing the strange mental phenomena which consti- 
tute the fascination of the book, she shows immaturity both of thought and 
observation ' Emily Chester ' exhibits such palpable mastery of illu- 
sive phases of passion difficult to fix and portray, that it cannot fail to make 
a profound impression on the public." 

" Emily Chester " was published without a word of preface to give 
the least hint of the whereabouts of the author, and was not covered 
with the pall of " Great Southern Novel ! " as is usually the mode 
novels by Southern writers are announced. It had made a reputation 

519 



■Cf 



520 LIVING FEMALE WRITEHS OF THE SOUTH. 

in the North, in Boston, the "Athens of America," before it was 
announced that the author was a lady of Baltimore. 
The Hon. George H. Hilliard thus reviews the book : 

.... "We have a work of remarkable originality and power, certainly 
in these qualities entitled to rank side by side with the best productions of 
American genius in the department of fiction. The interest of the book is 
entirely derived from psychological sources, that is, from the delineation of 
character, and not from the incidents of the narrative, which are of a common- 
place character, and with hardly the merit of probability. It reminds us of 
two works of fiction of a past age, Godwin's ' Caleb Williams/ and Goethe's 
'Elective Affinities,' but more of the latter than of the former. Indeed, 
'Emily Chester' could hardly have been written had not the 'Elective 
Affinities ' been written before it. We may be sure that the writer of the 
former is familiar with the latter. Imagine the 'Elective Affinities,' with a 
distinct moral aim superadded, and written with the intensity and consecra- 
tion of Godwin, and we get a tolerably fair impression of ' Emily Chester.' 
.... Emily Chester is a young woman of radiant beauty and extraordinary 
mental powers. One of her lovers is a man of iron will and commanding 
intellect, from whom she nevertheless recoils with an unconquerable physical 
or spontaneous repulsion. The temperament of the other is in harmony 
with her wn ; she is happy in his presence, and yet she is ever conscious of 
his intellectual inferiority, and thus resists the influence of his nature upon 
hers. Here is the whole web and the woof of the novel It is unques- 
tionably a work of genius. It is fair to add that it is a very sad story 
throughout, and thus not to be recommended to those who have sorrows 
enough of their own not to make them crave the books that make them 
grieve. It is a web in which flowers of gold and purple are wrought into a 
funeral shroud of deepest black 

" The heroine is an impossible creature. She is a combination of Cleo- 
patra, Harriet Martineau, and Florence Nightingale. She is a being as 
supernatural or preternatural as a centaur or griffin. She is a blending of 
irreconcilable elements. She is represented as choosing between one lover 
who satisfies her intellect, and another who gratifies her temperament, as 
coolly as she would between a pear and a peach at a dessert. Human beings 
are not so made. You cannot run a knife between the intellect and the sen- 
suous nature in this way ; nor can we ♦ think Max Crampton and Frederic 
Hastings are true to nature. They are to real men what Ben Jonson's charac- 
ters are to Shakspeare's : they are embodiments of humors, and not living flesh 

and blood And we need hardly add that it is not a healthy book. 

We lay it down with a feeling in the mind similar to that produced on the 

body by sitting in a room heated by an air-tight stove But, as has 

been said, there is only one kind of book which cannot be endured, and that 



ANXE MONCUEE CRANE. 521 

is the stupid kind, the book that bores you. ' Emily Chester' will never fall 
under this condemnation, for it is a book of absorbing interest. From the 
first chapter the author seizes the attention with the strong grasp of genius, 
and holds it unbroken to the last. And when the end comes, we lay the book 
down with a sort of sigh of relief at the relaxation of fibres stretched to a 
painful degree of tension." 

To show plainly the attention this novel attracted among the intel- 
lectual portion of the North, I give a criticism from the pen of a female 
genius of New England, widely known under her pseudonym of " Gail 
Hamilton " : 

" The very common fault of this book will have a tendency to conceal 
from the popular gaze its uncommon excellence. It has all the millinery 
of a third-rate American novel — the most abounding beauty in its women, 
perfect manly grace in its men, fabulous wealth surrounding the important 
personages, with a profusion of elegant appurtenances which, at the present 
rates of gold, reads like an Arabian Night's entertainment. In style it is 
sometimes careless, sometimes slightly coarse, and not unfrequently labored. 
It constantly falls into the vulgar error of making all of its outside women 
pretty, gossiping, envious, malignant, and hateful, with only here and there 
a gleam of faint and altogether flickering sunshine, as if womanly splendor 
were not sufficient of its own shining, but must be set off against a black 
background. The conversations are sometimes spun out to undue length, 
and it indulges too largely in philosophy and generalizations. Yet even 
these drawbacks have their own compensations. The remarks and reflec- 
tions, if sometimes a little impertinent, are generally sensible and shrewd, 
indicating an uncommon depth and clearness of insight. The conversations 
would occasionally be improved by abridgment ; but they are earnest and 
high-toned 

" I do not know that American novel literature has produced any other 
work of the kind. Miss Sheppard's ' Counterparts ' offers, so far as I can 
recollect, the only resemblance to be found in the English language. But 
discarding all resort to hard-featured fathers, mercenary mothers, family 
feuds, and all manner of circumstances, go directly inward, and find in the 
eternal mystery of the complex human being all the obstacle, the passion 
and purpose which life requires. This will not, perhaps, add to the popu- 
larity of the book ; but it makes its power. It may, indeed, be a stone of 
stumbling and a rock of offence to those conservative novel-readers who 
love to have a story go on in the good old paths, with which they have 
become so familiar that they can see the end from the beginning. It is so 
comfortable to know of a surety that the villain will come to grief, and the 
knight to joy, however stormy may be the sea of troubles on which he is 
66 



522 LIVING FEMALE WKITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 

tossed. All present pain is viewed with a tranquillity inspired by foreknowl- 
edge of future happiness. But this book thrusts in upon all these easy-going 
ways. A beautiful woman, of her own free will, marries a man who is pas- 
sionately and most unselfishly devoted to her, whom she holds in profound 
respect and reverence, yet with a feeling little short of loathing. What new- 
fangled notion is this "? Alas I it is newfangled only in novels, not in life , 
and it is only by failing to recognize these subtle yet all-powerful facts, that 
life has so much confusion. The most careful students, as well as mere 
casual observers, may fail to comprehend them ; but we have learned much 
when we have learned that there is mystery, that nature has her laws, 
impalpable but imperative, by obedience to which life is perfected, and by 
disobedience destroyed ; that, deeper down in the heart of man than any 
words can penetrate, are forces against which it is useless for even the will 
to contend. 

" l Emily Chester ' presents this theory in what seems to be an exaggerated 
form. Perhaps, to state a truth, it is necessary to overstate it. The motto 
of the title-page avows this : * It is in her monstrosities that nature discloses 
to us her secrets.' Max and Emily are scarcely so much man and woman 
as an impersonation of magnetism. But granting their existence, they act 
according to rigid natural laws. They are often melo-dramatic ; there is a 
certain overdoing of attitude, gesture, and expression, as if a youthful hand 
had traced the windings of Emily's inward experience, her changing rela- 
tions to Max, the effects of his absence and presence, the mingled distrust, 
repentance, regard, and gratitude. Such things come by special revelation. 
Emily herself is pure, and pure womanly, an intensified woman drawn with 
much skill and an infinite pity, sympathy, and tenderness. Her mirth, her 
coquetry, her gentleness and wilfulness, her great heart-hunger and brain- 
power, her passionate tastes and distastes, are a mighty relief after the bread- 
and-butter heroines who mostly trip it through even our good novels. Max 
is as great an anomaly, in his way, as Emily in hers. From time immemo- 
rial the self-immolation has been appointed to woman ; but this man, open- 
ing his eyes to the evil his indomitable will had wrought upon the woman 
most dear to him, gave himself a living sacrifice for atonement. With stern, 
unwearied self-denial, he bore the sharpest pain, if so he may bring to her 
a gleam of peace. He will have more disciples in his sin than in his suffer- 
ing ; but it is well to know that such a thing is possible, even in conception." 

Who is the author of this wonderful book ? 

Miss Anne Moncure Crane, a young lady of Baltimore, and her first 
attempt at writing. 

Miss Anne Moncure Crane is from a talented family. The best 
translation in English of the celebrated German poem, " Korner's 
Battle Hymn/' I know of, was made by a younger sister— never pub- 



ANNE MONCURE CRANE. 523 

lished. The author of " Emily Chester " was born in the city of Bal- 
timore, and has ever resided in that " city of beauty and talent." 
"Emily Chester" was her first attempt at writing. She became an 
authoress by the merest accident. Had any one told her a month 
before she began the book that she would ever write a novel, she would 
have laughed at the idea. She was twenty years old when her book 
was written. How true is it "that great events arise from trivial 
causes ! " One evening some one carelessly suggested that a circle of 
friends should form an original composition class, upon the plan of a 
reading class — and Miss Crane contribute a novel. The plan was not 
carried out, but the idea of " writing " had fallen upon fertile soil, and 
before the next day Miss Crane resolved to seriously attempt to write 
a book for publication. She began it, and " Emily Chester " was the 
result — she says, "a greater surprise to me than it could have been 
to any one else." A very unusual case was that of the publication 
of this book, and " as an act of justice to the much-maligned race of 
publishers," we state the case. When "Emily Chester" was completed, 
it was taken to Messrs. Ticknor & Fields by a lady who was a 
stranger to them. She was told that they could not even entertain 
the idea of publishing it, as they were overcrowded with previous en- 
gagements ; but upon her urging the point, she was politely allowed to 
leave the book for inspection. Within two weeks from that time they 
sent a contract for its publication, addressed to the "Author of 'Emily 
Chester ; ' " and it was not until Miss Crane returned the paper signed in 
full that they knew the name of the writer whose novel they had bound 
themselves to publish. They were aware that it was a first attempt, 
and that the author was a woman. Miss Crane's literary life has been 
peculiarly exempt from those trials and discouragements which tradi- 
tion has led us to believe are almost inseparable from the career of a 
young, unknown author. Miss Crane is a contributor of brilliant 
stories and poems to our magazines — among others to the " Galaxy" 
and " Putnam's Monthly." 

Her second book, entitled " Opportunity," was published at the close 
of 1867, and was welcomed by the many admirers of " Emily Ches- 
ter," although it did not create such a furore. It is thus noticed in 
a Southern journal, by Paul H. Hayne, the poet : 

" This is no common romance. Depending but slightly upon the nature 
of its plot and outward incidents, its power is almost wholly concentrated 



524 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

upon a deep, faithful, subtle analysis of character. Indeed, it is rather a 
series of peculiar psychological studies, than a novel in the ordinary sense of 
the term. True insight, genuine imagination, a somewhat unique experience 
of life, are everywhere apparent in its elaborate, careful, and not unfrequently 
profound portraitures. Even the faults of the work are such as could scarce- 
ly have had their origin in a commonplace mind. A morbid, exaggerated 
force of introspection, laying bare to their very roots the motives of human 
action, strikes the reader sometimes with a shuddering distaste, the sort of 
feeling one would experience in beholding too deep and merciless a dissec- 
tion of any diseased condition, whether of body or heart ! Yet how can one 
fail to admire the strong and subtle gifts by which such results are attained? 
Moreover, the general purpose of the story is noble and exalted. A purity 
of aim some might call transcendental distinguishes its central morale. But 
its unworldly suggestiveness is charming. Two male characters — brothers 
— divide the reader's interest. One is a brilliant, susceptible, but frivolous 
nature, possessing, no doubt, capacities for good, yet too feeble to arrest and to 
develop them. The other is a strong, j>assionate, manly, upright soul, who, 
in the blackest hours of misfortune and doubt, feels (as that gallant Chris- 
tian gentleman, Frederick Eobinson, was wont to observe) that there are in- 
stinctive spiritual truths — the 'great landmarks of morality ' — which a man 
(in the midnight of skepticism) must cling to, would he avoid destruction. 
These brothers, so diverse in temperament, encounter and fall in love with 
the same woman. She is little more than a girl in years, but her heart and 
intellect are strangely precocious : and not merely precocious, but wonder- 
ful in the exceptional character of their endowments. Her fascination radi- 
ates chiefly from within. To Grahame Ferguson — the elder and weaker bro- 
ther — she is led unconsciously to give her affection. 

"'Ah!' says the author, referring to this singular heroine — 'Ah! the marvellous 
fascination of these beautiful-ugly women. To watch the loveliness they seem to keep 
as too sacred for ordinary eyes, slowly dawn and reach a divine perfection in your sight, 
what mortal man can withstand? If it be only a faint, momentary wild-rose flush upon 
the usually colorless cheek, a single flash or passing gleam in the lustreless eyes, if you 
know it to be your very own, that you alone have created it, no glory of Greek art 
can so stir you ! This was the miracle Grahaffie wrought daily, and yet so differently, 
that he waited each time in expectancy as uncertain as intense. " This is the true, 
essential beauty!" he was tempted to exclaim. Another truth he awoke to, as he 
listened to her careless talking, with ever-increasing wonder. Not only was it that he 
recognized her absolute originality, her largo structure of mind, but that her thoughts 
seemed radiant with that gleam which "never was on sea or land," her sentences musical 
with nature's own harmony.' 

"Very speedily, however, the shallow, sensuous nature of the man be- 
trays itself by an irrecoverable act of self-committal, and there is a passion- 
ate though secret renunciation of him on the part of Harvey Berney, (the 



ANNE MONCTJRE CRANE. 525 

heroine's name,) which is depicted with a refined and searching skill, a de- 
gree of mind-knowledge and soul-knowledge that are unquestionably remark- 
able. We cannot follow the various complications of the narrative. It is 
at a later date that Grahame's brother, Douglas, makes the acquaintance of 
Miss Berney. These two were evidently fitted for each other ; strength to 
strength, purity to purity, passion to passion. But one of those errors, ap- 
parently so trifling, in reality pregnant with fate and death, came between 
and separated them. 

" Douglas was not permitted even to tell his love. Yet how the true, loyal, 
noble spirit rises gradually from the depression of the blow, and finds com- 
fort in the arms of duty, which are finally transformed into the arms of hap- 
piness ! 

" Grahame's destiny is of another and sadder kind. It never occurred to 
him that 

' To bear is to conquer our fate.' 

Therefore he yields to disappointment and all its insidious temptations, 
sinks lower and lower in the moral scale, and may finally be regarded as one 
of those dead souls which, though freed from absolute sensuality, are yet the 
' bounden slaves ' of ennui, sloth, discontent, and that host of effeminate 
vices which in certain moods are more revolting to us than downright, mon- 
strous, satanic wickedness. 

" Underneath the surface of Miss Crane's story and its characterizations, 
there runs a vein of meaning which only the attentive reader will clearly 
comprehend. She shows how ' opportunities ' may be neglected to the utter 
misery of the individual ; but she rightly and philosophically represents 
these ' opportunities ' as often coming in such ' questionable guise/ that 
an inspired foresight alone could be expected to take advantage of them. 
Thus, it is not in the ignorant neglect of ' opportunity ' that she pretends to 
find the seeds of guilt or folly, but in that illogical and disloyal faithlessness 
which sinks weakly under the ban of circumstance, accepts tamely its awards, 
and never, with the superb audacity of the ' Great Heart,' strives to force 
a way upward, in the very teeth of what we are too apt to call falsely ' provi- 
dential decrees.' In this way the unlucky Grahame sinks to a level below 
our contempt. Pursuing an opposite course, his brother not only vanquishes 
the desperation and despair which beset his reason, but grasps, finally, the 
serene rewards of an unselfish, manful endurance. 

" We close our notice of Miss Crane's production with the remark that no 
tale has recently appeared, North or South, which is so full of rich evidences 
of genuine psychological power, a profound study of character in some of 
its most unique spiritual and mental manifestations, and fervid artistic aspi- 
rations, destined to embody themselves gloriously in the future." 

Miss Crane looks the " woman of genius," having large features, her 
nose aquiline and prominent, her mouth large, but rather pleasant, her 



526 LIVING FEMALE WRITEJtS OF THE SOUTH. 

chin firm, her brow moderate and well arched : her eyes are dark, and 
have a bright outlook on this world ; her hair is dark and very luxuri- 
ant — she wears it piled up according to the present "Japanese" style. 
She is tall, but not ungraceful. She prides herself on making all her 
own clothes, and being able to do everything for herself, which is very 
commendable. A friend calls her " an universal genius " who is very 
ambitious, thinking " an intellectual woman ought to do everything.'' 
The following characteristic paragraph expresses so much, that we 
give it place here, against our better judgment perhaps : " In fact, the 
author of ' Emily Chester ' is a steam-engine of a woman, a regular 
locomotive, and flies desperately along the railroad of life ; and one 
must either subside into the train of cars she leads quietly, or be run 
over, perhaps crushed to infinitesimal atoms." Miss Crane has formed 
an " ideal " of what an " authoress " ought to be, and she tries to be it ! 

In the fall of 1869, Miss Crane was married to Mr. Seemuller, of 
New York. 

J. R. Osgood & Co., Boston, published a sensational novel from 
her pen, (1871,) entitled, " Reginald Archer." 



WOEDS TO A "LIED OHNE WORTE." 

All earth has that is rare or is treasurable : 

Long I searched for a token, in vain, 
Worthy to speak of this love so immeasurable, 
Worthy to be both my gift and her gain. 

Nor palace nor glory, 

Nor name high in story, 
These, not these would I bring to my love ; 

But what God gave me 

To raise and to save me, 
This, 't is this I would bring to my love. 

Years go by, and they take what is perishing, 
This world's fashion, which passeth away ; 
That which I give will need but love's cherishing, 
Ever to live and to bloom as to-day. 

Love's silver lining 

Through life's dark clouds shining, 
This, 't is this I would bring to my love; 

All I have shared with none, 

All I have dared with none, 
This, all this I would bring to my love. 



ANNE MONCURE CRANE. 527 

Pleasure lures, and we follow its beckoning ; 

Fame and honor seem life's best ends ; 
Aught that may stand in our way little reckoning, 
Onward we press, whomsoe'er it offends. 

But when Love's star rises, 

Nought else the soul prizes, . 
As earth sinks to darkness when heaven shows light, 

Then seem these empty hands 

Richer than golden strands, 
With love, and love only, to bring to my love. 



WINTER WIND. 



Eestless wind of drear December, 

Listened to by dying ember, 
Do you hold the same sad meaning to all other hearts this night ? 

Sweeping over land and ocean 

With your mighty, rhythmic motion, 
Has your hasting brought swift wasting to their hope and joy and light? 

To them, does your passing darken 
Night's black shadow as they hearken ; 

Filling it with mystic phantoms, such as throng some haunted spot, 
With the ghosts of joys and pleasures, 
Tortures now that once were treasures ? 

Does your sighing seem the crying of a soul for what is not ? 

Does the same weird, weary moaning 

Seem to underlie your toning, 
Whether risen in your strength, or sunk to wailing, fitful blast? 

Do they hear wild, distant dirges 

In your falls or in your surges ? 
Does your swelling seem the knelling for a dead, unburied Past? 



"FAITH AND HOPE." 

That night, after her mother had fallen asleep, Harvey, scenting tobacco- 
smoke upon the porch, stole down stairs for a quiet talk with Dr. Dan, or 
perhaps an hour of silent sitting, as of yore. At first, it proved to be the 
latter ; for, taking her childish place at his feet, and laying her head upon 
his knee, he put out his hand, and softly stroked her hair with the familiar 



528 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

gesture, but said nothing. Except the necessary aging with years, Dr. Dan 
was just the Dr. Dan of old. Presently, he began asking questions about 
her future plans ; and then the conversation came back to the present, and 
even to the past. 

" Harvey," he asked at last, " do you ever intend to marry ? " 

The inquiry had arisen somewhat naturally from others which he had put 
concerning a strong, true-hearted gentleman, whose apparently hopeless 
devotion to Harvey seemed but to deepen and strengthen with the deepen- 
ing and strengthening of his nature. 

" That is as God pleases," she answered, rather sadly. " Uncle," she con- 
tinued presently, and her voice had changed perceptibly, " I was wounded 
terribly, early in the battle of life, and since then I have been among the 
halt and maimed." 

"Yes, I know it," he replied, and his thoughts went sorrowfully and 
silently back to those early days. 

" Harvey," he said at last, and there was something like despair in his 
tone, " I want you to answer me one question truthfully. You have worked 
and won ; you have been faithful to what God gave you, and have striven 
hard to choose the better part : now tell me, has anything in existence 
yielded you real satisfaction ? I frittered away my strength and purpose ; 1 
wasted my substance of heart and soul in riotous living, and the punishment 
of spiritual starvation rests rightfully upon me: you did none of these things; 
yet tell me what essential, soul -satisfying element has life ever brought 
you?" 

For a moment or two the woman sat motionless, not looking at him, nor 
at the broad, moonlit heavens above her ; but with eyes fixed upon the low, 
dark horizon, and filled with a hungry, wistful light. 

" I shall be satisfied when I awake with His likeness." 

This faith and hope were all she had rescued from that failure which she 
called her life. Ah, me ! from the beginning, has any human heart ever 
truly rescued more ? 




LYDIA CRANE. 

"VTOT noted in the "literature" of our country, yet we cannot con- 
X\ scientiously omit a place in our volume to the translator of the 
beautiful " Battle Prayer " that we give. If she so desired, she could 
occupy a high position among our " Southland Writers," as a transla- 
tor and as an " original writer." 

Miss Lydia Crane is a daughter of the late Mr. William Crane, for 
many years a merchant in the city of Baltimore ; a man of wealth, 
noted for his extensive contributions to the Baptist Church and chari- 
table institutions. She is a younger sister of the authoress of " Emily 
Chester " and " Opportunity." 

Says a lady who has reverence, admiration, and true, respectful af- 
fection for her : " Lydia Crane is a noble, suffering woman, a martyr 
all her life to nervous disease and curvature of the spine, but who 
rises above pain and wretched health, and studies mathematics when 
every nerve is quivering with anguish." 



KORNER'S BATTLE PEAYER. 

©ekt tit ber <erf}Ia$t. 

Father, I cry to Thee ! 
Rolling around me the smoke of the battle, 
Lightnings surround me and war's thunders rattle, 
Leader of armies, I cry to Thee .' 

Father, lead Thou me ! 

Father, lead Thou me ! 
Lead me to victory, lead me to dying ; 
Lord, by Thy word, be my labor and trying ; 

Through this world's strife my guide deign to be. 
My God, I discern Thee ! 
67 529 



530 LIVING FEMALE WE ITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

My God, I discern Thee ! 
As in the murmur of leaves that are falling, 
So in the thunder of battle appalling, 

Fountain of Mercy, I recognize Thee ! 

Father, bless Thou me ! 

Father, bless Thou me ! 
To Thy hands alone my life is commended ; 
That Thou hast ordained, by Thee must be ended : 
In life and in death wilt Thou bless me ! 
Father, I praise Thee ! 

Father, I praise Thee ! 
If war ever good to the earth has afforded, 
The holiest cause we have saved and rewarded : 
Failing or conquering, I praise Thee ! 

To Thee all surrendered be ! 

To Thee all surrendered be ! 
Though from my heart my life-blood be flowing, 
When from my lips my last prayer is going, 
To Thee, my God, I surrender me I 
Father, I cry to Thee I 



M 



ELLIE LEE HARDENBROOK. 

RS. HARDENBROOK, born Lee, is a native of Baltimore, and 
younger sister of Mrs. J. W. Palmer. Since her girlhood, — 
she was born in 1836, — Mrs. Hardenbrook has been a brilliant and 
versatile writer for the press ; although she has never published a book. 
For several years she was editress of a New York " weekly." She 
has published many continued stories, — novelettes, in fact, remarkable 
for imaginative power and skilful construction, — together with letters 
and weekly gossip on the social and aesthetic topics of the day, for 
New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore papers. 



GEORGIE A. HULSE McLEOD. 

MRS. McLEOD is well known as presiding over the " Southern 
Literary Institute," of Baltimore, Maryland — a seminary for 
young ladies which is well known throughout the United States. That 
Mrs. McLeod is a generous, noble-souled lady, the fact that she gives 
free tuition to one young lady, the daughter of a deceased Confederate 
soldier, from each Southern State, amply attests. 

Mrs. McLeod was born in Florida, at the Naval Hospital near Pen- 
sacola, of which her father, Dr. Isaac Hulse, was then surgeon. She 
was left an orphan in infancy. 

Her first books, " Sunbeams and Shadows " and " Buds and Blos- 
soms," were published in New York, in 1851. Two years after the ap- 
pearance of her books, she was married to Dr. A. W. McLeod, of Hal- 
ifax, N. S., where they resided for some time. Her first volume after 
her marriage was " Ivy Leaves from an Old Homestead," which was 
followed by " Thine and Mine ; or, The Step-mother's Reward," pub- 
lished by Derby & Jackson, in 1857 — a book that was received with 
much favor, and inculcating an excellent moral, showing that a step- 
mother may supply a mother's place in kiadness and care. 
' Mrs. McLeod, since the close of the war, has published two little 
volumes, "Sea -Drift" and "Bright Memories." The former is a 
little story, dealing mainly with school-girls, their ways and thoughts, 
their joys and trials — a charming book, pure, healthful, and inspiring. 

Mrs. McLeod has been a constant contributor to magazines, etc., 
North and South, under the signature of "Flora Neale," and other 
noms de plume. 

Mrs. McLeod is a very industrious writer, conducting a large school 
successfully, and considering her pen-work as a recreation. 

She has recently completed a book for juveniles, entitled "Standing 
Guard," and a novel, the title of which is very inviting, viz., "The 
Old, Old Story." 

Mrs. McLeod also has in preparation a First-Class Reader, intended 

for the senior class of the Southern Literary Institute, for which some 

of the most noted writers have contributed. 

531 



532 LIVING FEMALE WEITEKS OF THE SOUTH. 



MINE! 

The fresh green robes spring had given to the earth became gorgeous with 
the many-colored blossoms springing up everywhere. The June roses clam- 
bered over the lattice-work, and sent in on the breath of the south wind a 
perfumed greeting, to woo into the summer air the happy-hearted. 

Never, to Mrs. Eivers, had the summer been so fair, the flowers so lovely. 
A joy within had shed an influence over outward things — a new, deep joy; 
for, with the summer blossoms, a bud of beauty, a living, floweret, gave an 
added charm to home. A murmur of praise trembled on her lips, and a 
happy light was in the soft, dark eyes, as she folded the unconscious little 
one so lovingly to her heart, murmuring, "Mine, all my own ! " 

A little child ! How the memory of Him who was cradled in a manger 
comes back upon us when we look upon such helplessness ! Its very weak- 
ness has the power of twining about proud hearts a chain of love and pity, 
that even man's strong hand may not unbind. 

We bless little children, for their presence bringeth purity and joy. 
Around them cluster affections that are nearer to the love of heaven ; and 
when, from one dwelling and another, the timid doves are won heavenward, 
their flitting leaves a void which may not easily be filled. 

"Mine!" What a spell in that simple word — a strangely solemn influ- 
ence. So to Grace it was. " Mine " is an added charge — an immortal spirit, 
which must learn through me the way to live — the how to die. Far away 
into the future her thoughts were fast flitting, weaving, thus early, visions of 
beauty yet to open upon the baby dreamer. But as shades shut out the sun- 
light, so darker thoughts were blending with them. What if she were called 
away ere it should learn to tread life's changing way ? Even thus another 
had been taken from those leaning upon her love — even thus, for the young 
voices that were echoing around gave to her the name lisped first to one de- 
parted. It was a sad memory, but one which made them seem the dearer, a 
more precious charge. The new tie that so blessed her should not weaken 
their claim, but, as a pure and cherished link, bind them more closely together. 



THE LOST TEEASUEE. 

The blue fades out from the fair summer sky, 
And my flowers have drooped their bright buds ; 

The winds of the autumn are scattering the leaves, 
And chanting a dirge o'er their heads. 

So the love that made earth always summer to me, 
Has failed me and left me alone : 



EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 533 

I sit by the ashes all cold on the hearth, 
And weep for the light that is gone. 

I set up, unseen by a stranger's cold eye, 

A stone in my heart's secret shrine : 
"In memory of" — and a name is thereon, 

The name of this lost love of mine. 
I prayed for him nightly ; I blessed him each day. 

The iove and the blessing he scorns ; 
He has crushed from my path the roses I loved, 

And leaves me all pierced by the thorns. 

But murmur not, heart — poor, sorrowful hearts 

We will keep loving vigil together ; 
It may be some day he will seek us again, 

When with him 't is less sunshiny weather. 
Let us patiently wait, and pray, and love on ; 

Kindly welcome him back, should he come ; 
But if not, the rich treasures we lose here on earth, 

May be found in a heavenly home. 



EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 

MISS BROW r NE was born in Cecil, Maryland, on Christmas day, 
1840. Her father, from whom she inherits her poetical gift, 
died when she was a child. 

The late poet and journalist George D. Prentice termed Emma 
Alice Browne " the sweetest song-bird in all the land." Every line 
she has written bears the imprint of genius. 

Fatherless at an early age, Miss Browne has carved her own way in 
the world with her pen. 

She has been for a number of years a contributor to the principal 
literary journals of the United States. Her poems have never been 
collected into a volume. 

Her home is at Woodville, Rappahannock County, Virginia. 



ESTELLA ANNA LEWIS. 

WHEN we say that this poet is decidedly the most eminent literary 
woman of her time,- we do not mean to deny that there are 
others whose writings are distinguished by more justness and sobriety 
of thought, by more directness, and more practicable utility ; but we 
mean to say that she has pursued a more lofty and dangerous career. 
Like Sappho of Lesbos, of whom she has so eloquently written, she 
has dared to enter the race for fame with the strongest, and to pluck 
the laurel from the very summit of Olympus. 

" Jupiter," says an eminent critic, speaking of her poetic powers, 
" is usually represented as sitting on a golden throne, holding in the 
one hand thunder-bolts, and in the other a sceptre of cypress. We 
do not say that Stella plays with the lyric fires as did Jupiter with 
thunder-bolts, but we do assert that her powers are great, and that her 
versatility is wonderful. At times she soars into the regions of the 
grand and imposing, and again, waves a wand as gentle and persuasive 
as the cypress." 

Estella was born in Baltimore, Md., and is the only child of 
Delmonte Kobinson, a West Indian planter, by his second wife, Anna 
Estella Butler, daughter of Col. Butler, of Washington, a descendant of 
the heroes of Wyoming of that name, who, as history tells us, were de- 
scended from the House of Ormond. After the death of her father, she 
was confided to a maternal uncle, who placed her at the Troy Female 
Seminary, where she was an ardent student from ten to fifteen, and 
where she won, at that tender age, the title of " the tenth muse." Her 
compositions were always in poetry; and when asked by her skeptical 
teacher where she found such pretty poems, she replied, " In my own 
heart ! " On one occasion an impromptu poem found its way into a 
daily paper before she had read it in the class, and she was accused 
of having taken it verbatim from said paper, and was obliged to call 
in the editor to prove her innocence. 

On leaving the seminary she was married to S. D. Lewis, Counsellor- 
at-Law, and immediately afterward the Appletons, of New York, pub- 
lished her " Records of the Heart," (1844,) which was received by the 
press with universal applause. No first volume of poems ever gained 
a wider popularity. Edgar A. Poe was so pleased with many of the 

534 



ESTELLA ANNA LEWIS. 535 

poems that it contained that he immediately made the author's acquaint- 
ance, and constantly wrote and talked of the young poetess. He 
recited " The Forsaken " on several public occasions, and in his 
" Literati " thus speaks of it : 

" The popular as well as the critical voice ranks ' The Forsaken ' as the 
most beautiful ballad of its kind ever written. . . . We have read it more 
than twenty times, and always with increasing admiration. It is inexpressibly 
beautiful. No one of real feeling can peruse it without a strong inclination 
to tears. Its irresistible charm is its absolute truth — the unaffected natural- 
ness of its thought." 



We give it entire. 



THE FOESAKEN. 



It hath been said — for all who die 

There is a tear ; 
Some pining, bleeding heart to sigh 

O'er every bier. 
But in that hour of pain and dread, 

Who will draw near 
Around my humble couch and shed 

One farewell tear? 

Who watch life's last departing ray 

In deep despair, 
And soothe my spirit on its way 

With holy prayer? 
What mourner round my bier will coma 

In weeds of woe, 
And follow me to my long home — 

Solemn and slow? 

When lying on my clayey bed, 

In icy sleep, 
Who there by pure affection led 

Will come and weep; 
By the pale moon implant the rose 

Upon my breast, 
And bid it cheer my dark repose, 

My lowly rest? 

Could I but know when I am sleeping 
Low in the ground, 



536 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

One faithful heart would there be keeping 

Watch all night round, 
As if some gem lay shrined beneath 

That sod's cold gloom, 
'T would mitigate the pangs of death, 

And light the tomb. 

Yes, in that hour if I could feel, 

From halls of glee 
And Beauty's presence one would steal 

In secrecy, 
And come and sit and weep by me 

In night's deep noon — 
Oh ! I would ask of memory 

No other boon. 

But, ah ! a lonelier fate is mine, 

A deeper woe: 
From all I love in youth's sweet time 

I soon must go : 
Drawn round me my pale robes of white, 

In a dark spot 
To sleep through death's long, dreamless night 

Lone and forgot. 

This little poem of such rigid simplicity and tearful pathos was 
composed at the age of fourteen, on hearing the doctor tell her nurse, 
in the evening, that she could not live till the morning. Ah ! what a 
night w T as this for a child full of hope and ambition, and of a naturally 
melancholy temperament ! With her long brown curls flowing over 
the pillow, all night she lay bidding adieu to earth, and in the morning 
recited to her nurse "The Forsaken." The next volume of Mrs. 
Lewis was " The Child of the Sea, and other Poems," (1845,) which 
was received with still more favor than her first volume, and of which 
Lamartine thus speaks in one of his notices of the author: 

"In dramatic movement and graphic description, "The Child of the Sea" 
will compare with any similar poem in any language. It is a beautiful 
novel in verse." 

Two years after this volume followed the "Myths of the Minstrels," 
which included those sonnets to "Adhemar," so widely known and 
admired, and of which the great French poet thus speaks in his critique. 



ESTELLA ANNA LEWIS. 537 

"The sonnets to 'Adhemar' entitle the author to the appellation of the 
'Female Petrarch/ and the 'Sappho of America/ a title which her compa- 
triots have justly given her. We agree with M. Edgar Poe, who has said, in 
his critique on the young poetess, that she is endowed with the truest poetic 
genius of any woman since the poetess of Lesbos." 

In 1858 the Appletons issued a collection of " Stella's " poems in 
one magnificently illustrated volume ; and soon afterward the poetess 
went to Europe, a widow, where she has since resided, with the excep- 
tion of one short visit to the United States. 

In Paris she resided in a fashionable hotel, where she gave weekly 
receptions, and had on her list of visitors the ilite of American and 
English society then in Paris, and such Frenchmen of genius as 
Lamartine, Guizot, and Dumas. 

From Paris she went to Italy, where she passed two years, mostly in 
Florence and Rome. 

In 1863 she published, in New York, "Helemar; or, The Fall of 
Montezuma : " a tragedy in five acts, written while she was in Italy. 
We quote the following from a long critique in Sear's "National 
Quarterly Review" for October, 1863. 

" Helemar is written with great power, and will add much to the author's 
reputation, as well as to the honor of American literature. In subject and 
treatment it is similar to the 'Alzire' of Voltaire, the 'Cid' of Corneille, and 
the 'Cromwell' of Victor Hugo; and it is by no means unworthy of a com- 
parison with those great historical dramas." 

We quote from the "Review" a single passage, where Helemar 
enters, and discovers the bodies of the Aztec noblemen who have been 
slain by the Spaniards. 

Helemar [recoiling aghast]. 

Horror of horrors ! O grim-visaged horror ! 

Pale, ghastly death ! Thrice damn'd inebriate murder ! 

That couldst not slake thy thirst with common blood, 

But needs drain Anahuac's royal rivers dry! — 

O Reason, keep thy throne! Judgment, thy seat! 

Until I fling my soul on this rank deed, 

And with its lightning wither up the foemen, 

As the great tempest crisps the autumn leaves! 

[He approaches the dead bodies. 

68 



538 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

most untimely harvest ! Glorious sheaves ! 

Unripely gathered to Death's granary ! — 

Burst — burst, big heart, and let thy great grief forth, 

As from volcano's bosom lava leaps, 

Into pale faces of affrighted stars ! 

What instigated this foul, bloody murder? 

This deed, so red it scents the world with gore, 

And sets all cannibals in earth a howling ! 

My noble brothers — Anahuac's young oaks — 

The very nerves and sinews of the State — 

Untimely felled — hewn down before their heads 

Had glittered in the glory of the sun. 

Ope earth ! gape hell ! and swallow up the white man ! 

Are ye all dead, my brothers — all so mute 

Ye cannot tell me wherefore ye were slain? 

Is there no lingering pulse — no throbbing heart — 

No mouth wherein is breath enough for speech? — 

Awake! arise! To thirsty vengeance give 

These thrice ten thousand hydra-headed fiends ! " 

At Nice, in the winter of 1868, Mrs. Lewis finished " Sappho of 
Lesbos," a tragedy which has been successfully produced at the Lyceum 
Theatre, London ; and in the summer of 1869, at St. Adresse, Upper 
Normandie, she wrote " The King's Stratagem," a tragedy in five 
acts. Besides these elaborate works, she has furnished to the New 
York " Home Journal," and other papers, during her residence 
abroad, " The Stella Letters," a piquant correspondence on society, 
literature, and art. She is about to publish in London, in two volumes, 
these letters, under the title of " Ten Years Outre Mer." 

The following, from the tragedy of " Sappho," has been much read 
and admired in London theatrical circles : 

THE GRIEF OF ALC^EUS. 

"Sappho." — Act II. 

Where am I? Whence this sable ps^A, 
Whose inky folks around me fall, 
Shutting the day-god from my sight? 
Just now the world was full of light, 
And now to me 'tis starless night. 

What have I done, ye gods? Oh say! 
That ye should snatch from me the day, 



HENEIETTA LEE PALMER. 539 

And from my life its beacon bright? 
Just now the world was full of light, 
And now to me 'tis starless night. 

Mine arms I put forth like the blind, 
And only empty darkness find; 
Sun, moon, and stars have taken their flight: 
Just now the world was full of light, 
And now to me 'tis starless night. 

Must I thus grope along the stream 
Of life without a beacon-beam 
To guide my lonely steps aright? 
Just now the world was full of light, 
And now to me 'tis starless night. 

Pitying, Jove, take me from earth ! 
Allay this bosom's gnawing dearth ! 
Translate to heaven my beacon bright! 
Just now the world was full of light, 
And now to me 'tis starless night. 



>*Kc 



HENRIETTA LEE PALMER. 

MISS HENRIETTA LEE was born in Baltimore, Md., February 
6th, 1834. She enjoyed the advantages of the famous "Patapsco 
Institute," established by Mrs. Lincoln Phelps, and the educational 
home of many Southern girls from Maryland to Texas. Miss Lee 
was married in 1855 to Dr. J. W. Palmer, of Baltimore, author of 
several successful books of California life, translator of Michelet's 
" L' Amour," etc., and compiler of " Folk Songs for the Popular 
Heart," an elegant gift-book published in 1860 ; and also the author 
of that popular poem of the war, " Stonewall Jackson's Way." Dr. 
Palmer is at this time (1871) editing a literary weekly in his native 
city." 

Mrs. Palmer's writings consist of contributions, stories, letters, etc., 
etc., to various New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore papers, and to 
the " Young Folks ' Magazine." She translated for Rachel, " The Lady 
Tartuffe." In 1858, Appleton & Co., New York, published in elegant 



540 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

style, "The Stratford Gallery; or, The Shakspeare Sisterhood, com- 
prising forty-five ideal portraits, described by Henrietta Lee Palmer." 
I append a critical notice of this work from high authority, " Atlantic 
Monthly," January, 1859. 

" This book is what it purports to be, — not a collection of elaborate essays 
devoted to metaphysical analysis or to conjectural emendations of doubtful 
lines, but a series of ideal portraits of the women of Shakspeare's plays. 
The reader may fancy himself led by an intelligent cicerone, who pauses 
before each picture, and with well-chosen words tells enough of the story to 
present the heroine, and then gives her own conception of the character, 
with such hints concerning manners and personal peculiarities as a careful 
study of the play may furnish. The narrations are models of neatness and 
brevity, yet full enough to give a clear understanding of the situation to any 
one unacquainted with it. The creations of Shakspeare have a wonderful 
completeness and vitality ; and yet the elements of character are often 
mingled so subtilely that the sharpest critics differ widely in their estimates. 
Nothing can be more fascinating than to follow closely the great dramatist, 
picking out from the dialogue a trait of form here, a whim of color there, 
and at last combining them into an harmonious whole, with the truth of 
outline, hue, and bearing preserved. Often as this has been done, therei s 
room still for new observers, provided they bring their own eyes to the task, 
and do not depend upon the dim and warped lenses of the commentators. 

" It is very rarely that we meet with so fresh, so acute, and so entertaining 
a student of Shakspeare as the author of this volume. Her observations, 
whether invariably just or not, are generally taken from a new standpoint. 
She is led to her conclusions rather by instinct than by reason. She makes 
no apology for her judgments: 

' I have no reason but a woman's reason : 
I think her so because I think her so." 

And it would not be strange if womanly instinct were to prove oftentimes a 
truer guide in following the waywardness of a woman's nature than the cold, 
logical processes of merely intellectual men. 

" To the heroines who are most truly women, the author's loyalty is pure 
and intense. Imogen, the ' chaste, ardent, devoted, beautiful ' wife, — Juliet, 
whose 'ingenuousness and almost infantile simplicity' endear her to all 
hearts, — Miranda, that most ethereal creation, type of virgin innocence, — 
Cordelia, with her pure, filial devotion — are painted with loving, sympa- 
thetic tenderness. 

" Altogether, this is a book which any admirer of the poet may read with 
pleasure ; and especially to those who have not ventured to think wholly for 
themselves, it will prove a most useful and agreeable companion." 



EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 

MRS. SOUTHWORTH is best known among the general public, 
of all writers of Southern birth. Her numerous thrilling 
romances have many , fond readers in England as well as in this 
country. 

Emma D. E. Neville Southworth, as she has informed the world in 
an autobiographical notice, was born in Washington, D. C, December 
26th, 1818. The eldest daughter of her parents. She has a half-sister, 
Mrs. Frances Henshaw Baden, who is a favorite contributor to the 
"New York Ledger," and in connection with whom she published 
" The Christmas Guest, and other Stories," Philadelphia, 1870. 

Mrs. Southworth's history is so well known that it is not necessary 
to quote it here. In 1849 Mrs. Southworth, then a teacher in a primary 
school in Washington, wrote her first novel, " Retribution," originally 
written for and published in the " National Era," of that city. This 
novel was published in a volume by Harper & Brothers, and Mrs. 
Southworth, who, before the publication of this novel, "had been poor, 
ill, forsaken, killed by sorrow, privation, toil, and friendlessness, found 
herself born, as it were, into a new life ; found independence, sym- 
pathy, friendship, and honor, and an occupation in which she could 
delight." She has by her efforts achieved competence, and resides in 
a charming home in Georgetown, D. C. She has a son who inherits 
his mother's talent. 

Mrs. Southworth has published more than any Southern writer. 
She has published thirty-three large volumes in twenty years. I append 
the titles of her novels : 

Retribution. The Deserted Wife. The Missing Bride. Love's 
Labor Won. The Lost Heiress. Fallen Pride. Curse of Clifton. 
Bridal Eve. Allworth Abbey. The Wife's Victory. The Gipsy's 
Prophecy. The Two Sisters. Discarded Daughter. Three Beauties. 
Haunted Homestead. Vivia; or, The Secret of Power. India; or, 
The Pearl of Pearl River. The Fatal Marriage. The Lady of the 
Isle. The Fortune Seeker. The Bride of Llewellyn. The Mother- 
in-Law. The Widow's Son. How He Won Her. The Changed 
Brides. The Bride's Fate. The Prince of Darkness. The Family 

541 



542 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

Doom. The Maiden Widow. The Christmas Guest. Fair Play. 
Cruel as the Grave. Tried for her Life. 
May, 1871. 



MISS ELIZA SPENCER 

IN 1867-68, "Mary Ashburton: a Tale of Maryland Life, by Elise 
Beverly," appeared serially in Gen. Hill's magazine, " The Land 
we Love." This novel attracted considerable attention. 

"Elise Beverly" was the pseudonym of Miss Eliza Spencer, of 
Skipton, Maryland. In 1869, she was residing at New Castle, Dela- 
ware, where her brother was rector of a flourishing church. 

"We give from the " Tale of Maryland Life," the following graphic 
picture of a Maryland farm-house of years ago : 

"An old-fashioned farm-house in the eastern part of Maryland, ochre- 
washed into a delicate straw color, a tall yellow chimney peering above the 
trees, a little attic window peeping out from the great gable end, and where 
rose-vines are clambering and tumbling over, except where caught by strips 
of morocco mellowed by time and the rust of the nails almost into the hues 
of the walls ; here and there deep-seated dormer-windows, front and back, 
where the bees are swarming in at the dishes of dried fruit therein displayed ; 
old gnarled apple-trees lovingly kissing each other over the high shelving 
roof, and almost covering it with their sweet white blossoms; pear- and 
cherry-trees mingling their odoriferous flowers on the deep, grassy carpeting 
of the enclosure; a wilderness of jessamine and honeysuckle growing on the 
walls; a long, large garden behind, luxuriating in the dear old-fashioned 
flowers, not forming squares or triangles in stiff, prim lines, but springing up 
everywhere, contrasting their colors in the richest, gayest confusion, evidently 
not suffering for want of attention, for the ground about them is carefully 
worked, and all weeds and briers most promptly removed. No prim walks 
glistening with sand and gravel, but a rich green sod on which the fruit- 
blossoms lay their sweet little white cheeks, or the lovely pink flowers of the 
peach embroidered it in charming patterns. In front spread a long enclosure 
lined with fruit-trees, and interspersed with them, so as to form an almost 
uninterrupted shade about the house, though the sunlight fell in golden 
patches on the grass and penetrated through the leaves and branches* 
glinting and sparkling amid the vegetation till lost in its deepening laby- 
rinths. A well-sweep, suspending an ' iron-bound bucket, ' arose from a well 
on whose oaken sides the green moss of ages seemed collected, and, glancing 
over into its clear depths, the water looked so pure and cool that it tempted 



TAMAE A. KEEMODE. 543 

you to drink whether thirsty or not. Then the apple-blossoms fell about 
it, and seemed to make it the sweeter for their breath. An old love of a pic- 
turesque well it was, suggestive of pretty maids tripping there with their 
pitchers on their shoulders, while the traveller quenched his thirst by their 
kind assistance." 



>**< 



MISS TAMAR A. KERMODE. 



MISS TAMAR ANNE KERMODE was born in Liverpool, 
England. Came to Baltimore in 1853. Has resided there 
since. She has contributed poems and prose to the " New York Led- 
ger," Godey's " Lady's Book," and other papers and magazines, North 
and South. 



"GIVE US THIS PEACE." 
" The peace of God, which passeth all understanding." 

These words fell softly on my ear, and so I prayed — 

Give us this peace, O God, and in each breast 
All stormy thoughts and feelings shall be stayed, 

And we shall find in thee our perfect rest. 
We're weary of the care, and toil, and strife, 

These dark attendants of our onward way — 
Still cast their dreary mists o'er all our life : 

Look down, Lord, and send them all away. 
And then a voice, soft, solemn, low, and sweet, 

Seem'd to my fancy whispering in my ear, 
"Be not cast down nor troubled 'tis but meet 

That thou shouldest bear thy cross — then wherefore fear 
The trials in thy path? Our Saviour looketh down, 

And those who work with patience win at last a crown. 
1871. 



ELEANOR FULLERTON. 

VIOLET FULLER " is the nom de plume of this lady. Her occa- 
sional poems have been widely copied. Mrs. Fullerton, whose 
maiden name was Hollins, is of English birth : her parents removed 
to the United States when she was quite young. She was educated in 
Baltimore, and has always resided there. Miss Hollins had every ad- 
vantage wealth could command. She travelled in Europe while in 
the flush of youth, with her mind beginning to expand to all that was 
beautiful in nature and art. On her return home she commenced to 
write poetry, but did not publish for seven years. She was married in 
1860. 

Her poems and prose sketches have generally appeared in Baltimore 
journals. 

Mrs. Fullerton has recently (May, 1871,) published a volume of her 
poems, through Sampson Low & Son, London. 

The following verses give an idea of her graceful style : — 



SO LONG AGO. 

Oh, youth and love! the golden time 
When life was in its joyous prime ; 
How fair each flower, how green each tree, 
As, hand in hand, I walked with thee 
So long ago. 

Beneath the beauty of thy brows 

Thine eyes shone soft; thy whispered vows, 

As on mine ear their accents fell, 

I loved their music passing well 

So long ago. 

And I looked love into thine eyes, 
While brightly beamed the summer skies, — 
Around us sighed the sweet perfume 
Of summer roses, rich in bloom 

So long ago, 

544 



69 



ELEANOR FULLERTON. 545 

'Tis past, as summer roses die, 
As fades the light from earth and sky- 
When night comes on, so beauty goes, 
And withers, like the radiant rose 
So long ago. 

Yet think not that I blame thee, dear ; 
'Tis but the fate of mortals here, 
To lose their charm, when no more lies 
The light of youth in once-loved eyes 
So long ago. 

There is a light that's better far, — 
A holy light that, like a star, 
When the dark night of life comes on, 
Beams in the eyes whence youth has flown 
So long ago. 

The light of Heaven ! Oh may it shine 
On thee, and may a grace divine 
On thee be shed when fades away 
The tender radiance of the May 
So long ago. 





TEXAS, 



FANNY A. D. DARDEN. 

HE subject of this brief article is a native of Texas. She 
belongs to a thoroughly Southern stock. Her father, Gen- 
eral Mosely Baker, a native of the " Old Dominion State," 
was one of Texas's most distinguished soldiers during her 
struggle with Mexico for independence, and, after peace was declared, 
was her bright, particular star of legal acumen and forensic eloquence. 
Her mother was the only daughter of Colonel Pickett, of North Caro- 
lina, and sister of the historian of Alabama, in which State Fannie 
was educated. 

As a lady of birth and culture, as a litterateur of taste and genius, 
as a native Southerner, and true, unswerving " daughter of the Con- 
federacy," as the wife of a gallant officer — Captain William Darden, 
of Hood's Texas Brigade — Mrs. Darden's patent of nobility is clear 
and unmistakable, and therefore, with pride and pleasure, Texas pre- 
sents ner among " Southland Writers " as one of her representative 
women. 



THE OLD BRIGADE. 



Hood's gallant old brigade ! 
Ah ! how the heart thrills, and the pulses leap 

When once again those well-known words are spoken, 
Rending aside the clouds that darkly keep 

The present from the past, and bring a token 

From that weird, shadowy land, whose silence is unbroken ! 
Hood's gallant old brigade ! what memories throng 

With the swift rush as of a torrent leaping ; 
And far-off strains of high, heroic song 

Come like a rolling wave majestic sweeping, 

When that mute chord is struck which stirs our souls to weeping I 
546 



FANNY A. D. DARDEN. 547 

And was it not a dream, those glorious days 
When hope her banner proudly waved before us ; 

When, in the genial light of freedom's blaze, 
We lived and breathed with her bright heaven o'er us, 
While every hill and vale rang out her lofty chorus ? 

When our loved State (whose one bright, glorious star 
Her lonely vigil keeps o'er earth and ocean) 

Poured forth her sons at the first cry of war, 
Which thrilled each soul with patriot emotion, 
And claimed from those brave hearts their loftiest devotion. 

Nay, 't was no dream, those four long years, when war 
With gloating triumph rode her bloody car, 
Dragging, enchained, o'er fierce and stormy fields, 
Her bleeding victims at her chariot wheels. 
Nay, 't was no dream, though vanished are the days 

When glory's splendid pageant moved before us, 
Though now no more is seen the lurid blaze 

Which from each gory field lit up the heaven o'er us — 
Though fallen is that flag, once proudly floating 

Above the battle's roar where heroes fought 
With more than Spartan valor, there devoting 

Those hearts, whose flame from freedom's shrine was caught, 

To that loved cause, the freedom which they sough c. 

Hood's gallant old brigade ! where are they now ? 

Those souls of fire, who on the bloody plain 
Of proud Manassas swept the usurping foe 

Before them, as the rushing hurricane 
Its fatal vengeance wreaks and spreads jts mighty woe. 
Oh ! where are those whose blood baptized the soil 

Of Sharpsburg and the sombre Wilderness, 
Who, through long years of strife, and pain, and toil, 

No want could sadden, and no power depress — 
Who charged the foe on Malvern's fatal hill, 

And where the mountain's brow frowns darkly down 
On Boonsboro', and on the historic field 

Where Eichmond looked on deeds whose high renown 
Amazed the world, and in the valley deep 
Where Chickamauga's heroes gently sleep ? 

But few remain of those, who, side by side, 
Together braved the storm ; and far and wide 



>48 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Hood's Texans sleep a dreamless sleep, nor mark 
The times nor changes, nor the heavy clond 

That wraps their once-loved land in pall so dark. 
The past has fled, but thickly memories crowd 

Upon us, and the phantom years return 
With distant echoes from its shadowy shore. 

Our bosoms throb, our hearts within us burn ; 
We hear again the deep artillery's roar, 

And see our banner in the light of day 
Borne high aloft upon the buoyant air ; 

And columns deep of those who wore the gray 
Are marshalled as of yore — the foe to dare. 

The past comes once again, and memories throng 
With the swift rush as of a torrent leaping ; 

And far-off strains of high, heroic song 
Come like a rolling wave majestic sweeping, 
When that mute chord is struck: which stirs our souls to weeping. 

The past comes once again, but stays not long ; 
Its forms dissolve, its glorious splendors fade, 

But still is heard the burden of its song : 

And distant ages shall the strain prolong, 
Which tells thy immortal deeds, Hood's gallant old brigade! 



CHECKMATE. 



They sat beneath the lamp-light's glow, — ' 

He was dark and she was fair, — 
And chess was the game that they played; but oh, 
Often a furtive glance he threw 

At her rippling waves of hair. 

And she, with looks bent on the game. 

Seemed not to mark the roving glance ; 
But her cheek bore a blush of maiden shame, 
And it told that treacherous "tell-tale" flame, 
Her dream of soft romance. 

Rippling waves of golden hair 

Sparkled in the lamp-light's glow, 
Around her forehead, without compare, 
Over her shoulders, so snowy fair, 

To her waist, in billowy flow. 



S. E. MAYNAED. 549 

Now on the board with eager look, 

Where kings and queens, in mimic war, 
With knights and bishops their lances broke, 
They gazed, while not a word was spoke 

By each would-be conqueror. 

But Fate was there with mystic spell, 

And silently her web she wove, 
And the maid's bright hair as it waving fell, 
She knew would soon his heart impel 

To her mesh, whose woof was love. 

"Checkmate!" he cried, "you've lost at last;" 

But she, with meek, unconscious air, 
Was smiling at Fate, who, with wise forecast, 
In her golden mesh had caught him fast, 
Entangled by her hair. 
Columbus, April, 1870. 



MRS. S. E. MAYNARD. 

SARAH ELIZABETH HILLYER is a native of Eatonton, 
Putnam Co., Georgia. Was born in 1841, daughter of Rev. 
John F. Hillyer, a Baptist minister. 

W T hen she was six years old, her family removed to the " Lone Star " 
State. From a very early age, Sarah was given to rhymes ; exciting 
the fear that "she would become a poet, and be utterly worthless." 

At the age of fifteen, Miss Hillyer was married to Mr. J. J. Ballard, 
of Halletsville, Texas. After her marriage, Mrs. Ballard published 
poems in various papers, under the signature of " Kaloolah." Her hus- 
band died five years after the marriage. During her widowhood she 
published under her name, Sallie E. Ballard, — her articles meeting 
with much favor. 

She has nearly ready for publication a novel, entitled " The Two 
Heroines ; or, Freaks of Fortune." 

She has recently married Mr. Maynard, and they reside near 
Bastrop, Texas. 



550 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

CLEOPATEA TO MARC ANTONY.* 

Oh ! my Antony, look on me ! 

Let me gaze into those eyes; 
Let me revel in their radiance 

Till the light within them dies ; 
Let their starry brightness, beaming 

O'er my tranced soul once more, 
Thrill me with the wild emotions 
► Which they woke in days of yore. 

Oh ! my Antony, look on me ! 

Eaise thy worshipped eyes to mine; 
Let my soul hold sweet communion 

Through those crystal doors with thine; 
Let our loving spirits mingle 

Till the icy clasp of death 
Shuts those eyes on me forever — 

Stops that music- waking breath. 

Thou art dying, my proud Roman ! 

Dying! — when thou might' st have been 
Monarch of a world, but gave it 

For a smile from Egypt's queen. 
Fatal smile! to win thy spirit 

From its glorious eagle flight: 
Mark me, Antony, my Roman, 

It shall fade in endless night. 

Egypt's queen is throneless, fallen ; 

But she hath a soul of pride. 
Hark ! the victors ! they are coming ! 

How they'll mock me and deride! 
One more look, my dying Roman; 

One more lingering, fond embrace. 
Caesar comes! but Caesar's triumph 

Egypt's queen shall never grace. 

He is dead! But died Triumvir. 

Cleopatra dies — a queen! 
Back to Rome, steel-hearted victor, 

Tell them there what thou hast seen; 
Tell the fair and chaste Octavia 

Antony has scorned a crown; 
Tell her how, for him, and with him, 

Egypt's royal star went down. 

* Written after reading Lyttle's "I am dying, Egypt, dying !" 



MRS. MAUD J. YOUNG. 



MRS. M. J. YOUNG, daughter of Col. N. Fuller, Houston, Texas, 
is a native of North Carolina. Through her father she is a lineal 
descendant of John Rolf and his wife, Pocahontas, and blood kindred 
of the Randolphs of " Turkey Island " and " Roanoke," and of the 
Boilings, of Virginia. Her great-grandfather, Michael Pacquenett, a 
Huguenot from Bordeaux, France, came to this country after the revoca- 
tion of the Edict of Nantes, and is mentioned in Hawkes's History of 
North Carolina as a freeholder in that State in 1723. 

On her mother's side she is descended from the Dunbars, Braggs, and 
Braxtons, of Maryland and Virginia ; and the Marshalls, of Marsh 
Place, Essex, England. Her grandfather, Dr. John Marshall, a man 
of vast erudition and finished accomplishments of mind and manner, 
was educated at Eton and Oxford ; Trinity College, Oxford, confer- 
ring upon him two degrees. After completing his education, during a 
travelling tour in this country, he met Miss Mary Bragg, (aunt of Gen- 
eral Bragg, of the Confederate Army,) and became so enamored of the 
fair American that he did not return to England until he had wooed 
and won her for his wife. Their youngest daughter is the mother of the 
subject of this sketch. 

Miss Fuller was married in her twentieth year to Dr. S. O. Young, 
of South Carolina, a man of superior mind, thorough cultivation, and 
elegant address. His family are connected by ties of blood and fre- 
quent intermarriage with the Bonners, Lees, Pressleys, Calhouns, and 
Bonhams, families whose names are interwoven with the literary, po- 
litical, judicial, religious, and military history of South Carolina since 
the first Revolution. He died the first year of their marriage, leaving 
an only son, to whose education and training Mrs. Young's life has 
been devoted. This son is now, after having completed his college stu- 
dies under General Lee at Lexington, pursuing the Study of his pro- 
fession at the Medical School in New Orleans, and bids fair to be a 
worthy representative of his family name and honors. 

After showing Mrs. Young to be so truly a daughter of the South, 
it need scarcely be added that she was true to the traditions of her 

551 



552 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

race in the late struggle. During the war, her pen, guided by the 
thrilling impulses of her soul, dropped words of comfort and songs of 
fire that soothed the souls and inspired the hearts of her countrymen 
from the Potomac to the Rio Grande. The 5th Regiment of Hood's 
Texas Brigade sent their worn and bloody flag home to her, after it 
had been covered with glory on a hundred battle-fields. She was en- 
shrined in thousands of stern, true hearts, under the title of " The Con- 
federate Lady " and " The Soldier's Friend." The commanding gene- 
ral of the Trans-Mississippi Department caused her appeals to be pub- 
lished by thousands and distributed through the army during the dark 
days after Lee's surrender, when it was still hoped that Texas would 
constitute herself the refuge and bulwark of that cause which none 
could deem then " lost." General Kirby Smith, General Magruder, 
General Joseph Shelby, and " The Confederate Lady " came out in a 
paper addressed to the " Soldiers and Citizens of Texas, New Mexico, 
and Arizona." This sheet, whose thrilling and soul-stirring appeals 
were enough to have created heroic resolutions under the very ribs 
of death, was printed by military command, and posted in the towns 
and served broadcast over camps and country. 

Since the war, Mrs. Young has in all her writings made more or 
less practical application of her subjects to the times ; comforting, con- 
soling, and encouraging her people — yet never bating one jot or tittle 
of her convictions concerning the past. To fail is not to be wrong, we 
can acknowledge defeat without believing ourselves in error, is her 
maxim. A distinguished officer of General "Stonewall" Jackson's 
regiment, after a visit to Texas, writes of her as "the vestal matron, 
guarding with religious and patriotic devotion the home-altars of her 
beloved State." 

In an essay entitled " Weimar," she exclaims : 

" Shall any young Southron fall into despair, or feel that he can never 
achieve greatness or distinction, now that his patrimonial acres and slaves 
are gone, when he reads the great Schiller congratulating himself upon the 
possession of an income of one hundred and twenty dollars ? Go to your 
libraries, my young countrymen, and read the splendid thoughts that God 
sent Schiller in his poverty, and see how, in his humble cottage, in the capital 
of a duchy whose entire territory is scarcely larger than your plantation, he 
made a glorious fame, and crowned the brow of his native land with wreaths 
as immortal as her mountains, and beautiful and bright as the sparkling 
waves of her broad, blue Rhine I " 



MAUD J. YOUNG. 553 

Again she writes : 

" To contemplate Weimar, her insignificant territory, her poverty, her 
weakness, her dependence, and to see her become the nursing mother of the 
whole German Empire, and that too, not by wealth, or arms, or diplomacy, 
but simply through the mental powers of her children, we are constrained 
to admit that the grandest possibilities of humanity lie within the grasp of 
every condition ; and that the watchword of youth should be that terse but 
comprehensive command of the Bible, 'Despise not the day of small things.' 
The best things of this world have owed nothing to extraneous circumstances 
— the power has been from within — fashioning, elevating, and purifying the 
individual, then the masses. No thought of failure should weaken your 
energies. ' Heart within, and God overhead.' You have not only a right 
to the brightest hopes, but a solemn duty to make those hopes verities." 

Mrs. Young has written under several noms de plume. Her two 
works of greatest length are "Cordova," a religious novel, and a work 
on botany, soon to be issued, illustrative principally of the flora of 
Texas. Essays, short poems, and stories for magazines and news- 
paper publications, make up the bulk of her writings. 

Simms, in his volume of Southern poems, has her " Song of the 
Texas Kanger." It was published originally without her name, as 
the most of her war poems were. 

She has embodied in stories several of the legends of her State — 
among them, one of the famous watering-place, Sour Lake. Under 
the garb of a fairy story, she relates the story of secession, and the 
downfall of the Confederacy, pointing, in conclusion, to the only hope 
of happiness left us — labor, and an unselfish devotion to the welfare of 
each other. 

A leading paper, in speaking of this, says : 

" 'The Legend of Sour Lake,' by M. J. Y., is really one of the finest prose 
poems we have read for many a day. Though not in verse, it is genuine 
poetry from beginning to end. Would that all the wild and beautiful 
legends of our wide field of poetic treasures — Texas — could be put in endur- 
ing form by the literary artist. This romantic Indian tradition, so beauti- 
fully rendered, and whose glorious symbolisms are so happily applied to the 
instruction of the Southern people, will not die." 

Rev. Mr. Carnes, himself one of the purest and most talented of 
writers, says that the " ' Legend of Sour Lake ' is a tale worthy the 
70 



554 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

author of Undine itself," etc, The proprietors of the Lake presented 
the writer with the freedom of the springs. 

One of Mrs. Young's best productions is an essay upon the relative 
character of the mind of man and woman. She takes ground against 
the " New School lights," denying woman's mental equality in kind, 
though she claims it for her in degree. She has chosen Milton and 
his " Paradise Lost," and Mrs. Browning and her " Drama of the 
Exile," as illustrations of her theory. The essay is too long to give 
entire, and to make quotations would only be an unsatisfactory mar- 
ring of the whole. The " Telegraph " has been the most frequent 
medium of her communications, Mr. Cushing, its editor, being the 
Nestor of the press in her State, and the kindly guardian of every 
genius in its boundaries. 

The writer of this sketch is reluctant to leave her pleasant task 
without making some mention of the sweet atmosphere of sympathy 
and feeling which emanates from and surrounds Mrs. Young in her 
social and private life, and of the brilliant light which her genius 
sheds upon those who come in immediate contact with her. Not only 
are her conversational powers incomparable and her manners perfect, 
but she has that silent tact and ready understanding which brings 
forward the best that is in those about her, and makes them feel, after 
leaving her, that they have themselves shone in truer and sweeter 
colors than their every-day garb. She is enveloped in incense from 
grateful hearts day by day ; she is the " comforter," the " Christian," 
to those who come within her orbit. In her town, and in the country 
surrounding, no bride is pleased with the adjustment of her orange- 
blossoms unless Mrs. Young's fingers have helped to arrange them ; 
no schoolboy is satisfied with his prize until she has smiled upon it. 
Grief comes to be folded to her heart, and happiness begs for her 
smile. She has drunk herself most deeply of the cup of sorrow — she 
has been scorched by the flames of affliction ; but she has risen refreshed 
and strong from the bitter draught ; she has come out brightened and 
purified, "even as refined gold" from the heat of the furnace. 

In person, Mrs. Young is tall, with a commanding grace. She has 
beautiful dark eyes, an expressive mouth, and a soft, clear voice. 
Clad always in soft, black, flowing robes, and moving, as she does, 
like a dream, her memory haunts all who have once seen her, and her 
wonderful presence leaves a sense of itself wherever she has been. 

1869. * * * 



MISS MOLLIE E. MOORE. 

"VTATTJRE has wrought such profusion of beauty over the prairies 
Xi of Western Texas, that the lover of the romantic and picturesque 
is often too much bewildered, as he travels the rolling hills and mimic 
mountains about the upper tributaries of the Colorado and the Gua- 
dalupe, to decide where she has been most lavish of her exquisite 
touches. 

But would you find yourself lost in a Western Eden, and believe 
that you had passed, unwitting, into the spirit-land ? Then pause in 
your travels amid the hills of the " Rio San Marcos." 

Ask you how, away in this solitude, the mocking-bird learns to 
sing the thousand songs she never heard of bird, or instrument, or 
human voice ? 

Answer your own question, by findiug the forest, prairie, flower 
and foliage, the winds and waters burdened with the very spirit of 
song : the vocal organs of the happy bird are only the instrument 
through which the music gushes. 

And here it was, before she was nine years old, our Texas poetess, 
Mollie E. Moore, first sang her tuneful songs — and, without a 
master other than nature's voice, learned, like her feathered friend, 
to sing the songs she never heard; and, like that mistress of the winged 
minstrels, she sang " because she could not help it." Poetry gushed 
from her pen as the mere instrument of utterance. She is our " Texas 
Mocking-bird." 

Dr. Moore emigrated from the banks of the Coosa, in the State of 
Alabama, where " Mollie " was born, when she was a mere child, and 
found a home in Texas such as we have described. Here he resided 
till his child, the only daughter of a large family, had imbibed the 
elements of poesy. He could command but few advantages of educa- 
tion for his children beyond their home circle; but he had some books, 
and a taste for natural beauty and natural science. His wife, too, had 
a gift for song and versification, readily caught by their little darling. 
No bird sang, or wind sighed, or grasshopper chirruped, or prairie- 
plume nodded, that Mollie's heart did not respond ; and the passion 

555 



556 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

for natural beauty, in all its thousand phases, that she sketches now 
with the hand of magic, was so deeply inwoven with her very being, 
that she lived a kind of fairy-life during her few years on the banks 
of the "Rio San Marcos." But read her own sweet song of her child- 
hood's home : 

"THE RIVER SAN MARCOS." 

Far o'er the hills and toward the dying day, 
Set like a heart — a living heart — deep, deep 
Within the bosom of its wide prairies, 
Lies the valley of San Marcos. And there, 
A princess, roused from slumber by the kiss 
Of balmy southern skies, the river springs 
From out her rocky bed, and hastens on, 
Far down the vale, to give her royal hand 
In marriage to the waiting Guadalupe. 

Like some grim giant keeping silent watch, 

While from his feet some recreant daughter flies, 

Above, the hoary mountain stands, his head 

Encircled by an emerald-pointed crown 

Of cedars, strong as those of Lebanon, 

That bow their sombre crests, and woo the wind, 

Drunken with fragrance, from the vale below. 

About his brow, set like a dusky chain, 

The mystic race-paths run — his amulet — 

And nestled squarely 'gainst his rugged breast. 

Perched quaintly 'mong the great, scarred rocks that hang 

Like tombstones on the mountain-side, the nest 

The falcon built still lingers, though the wing 

That swept the gathering dust from off our shield 

Hath long since drooped to dust ! 

And here, down sloping to the water's marge, 
The fields, all golden with the harvest, come : 
And here, the horseman, reining in his steed 
At eve, will pause, and mark the village spires 
Gleam golden in the setting sun, and far 
Across a deeply-furrowed field will glance 
With idle eye upon a stately hill, 
That, girt with cedars, rises like a king 
To mark the farther limit of the field. 
'T was here, between the hill and river, stood 



MOLLIE E. MOORE. 557 

A shaded cottage ; and its roof was low 

And dark, and vines that twined the porch but served 

To hide the blackness of its wall. But then 

'Twas home, and "heaven is near us in our childhood. 1 

And I was but a child ; and summer days, 

That since have oftentimes seemed long and sad, 

Were fleeter then than even the morning winds 

That sent my brother's fairy bark, well balanced, 

In safety down the river's tide. Alas ! 

Is there, can there be aught in all the world 

To soothe the sick soul to such perfect rest 

As filled its early dreams '? Is there no fount, 

Like that of old, so madly sought by Leon, 

Where the worn soul may bathe and rise renewed ? 



Well I remember, 
Down where the river makes a sudden bend, 
Below the ford, and near the dusky road, 
Upon her bosom sleeps a fairy isle, 
Enwreathed about with snowy alder-boughs, 
And tapestried with vines that bore a flower 
Whose petals looked like drops of blood — 
We called it " Lady of the Bleeding Heart" — 
And through it wandered little careless paths. 

And o'er this living gem 
The very skies seemed bluer, and the waves 
That rippled round it threw up brighter spray. 
Upon the banks for hours I 've stood, and longed 
To bask amid its shades ; and when at last 
My brother dragged, with wondrous care, his boat — 
Bude- fashioned, small, and furnished with one oar — 
Across the long slope from the stately hill 
Where it was built, ne'er did Columbus' heart • 
Beat with a throb so wild upon that shore 
Unknown to any save to him, as ours 
When, with o'erwearied hands and labored breath, 
We steered in safety o'er the dangerous way, 
And stood, the monarchs of that fairy realm ! 
My brother ! how I wish our wayward feet 
Once more could feel that lordly pride — our hearts 
Once more know all their cravings satisfied ! 

Sweet valley of San Marcos ! few are the years 
That since have linked their golden hands and fled 



558 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Like spirits down the valley of the past ; 
And yet it seems a weary time tome! 
Sweet river of San Marcos ! the openings seen 
Between thy moss-hung trees, like golden paths 
That lead through Eden to heaven's fairer fields, 
Show glimpses of the broad, free, boundless plains 
That circle thee around. Thine own prairies I 
How my sad spirit would exult to bathe 
Its wings, all heavy with the dust of care, 
Deep hi their glowing beauty ! How my heart, 
O'ershadowed with the cloud of gloom, would wake 
To life anew beneath those summer skies ! 



Oh, river of my childhood I fair valley-queen I 
Within thy bosom yet at morn the sun 
Dips deep his golden beams, and on thy tide, 
At night, the stars — the silver stars — are mirrored ; 
Through emerald marshes yet thine eddies curl, 
And yet that fairy isle in beauty sleeps, 
(Like her of old who waits the wakening kiss 
Of some true knight to break her magic sleep ;) 
And yet, heavy with purple cups, the flags 
Droop down toward the mill ; but I — oh I I 
No more will wander by thy shores, nor float 
At twilight down thy glassy tide ! — no more. 
And yet, San Marcos, when some river-flower, 
All swooning with its nectar-drops, is laid 
Before my eyes, its beauty scarce is seen 
For tears which stain my eyelids, and for dreams 
Which glide before me of thy fairy charms, 
And swell my heart with longing, 
Sweet river of San Marcos ! 

Dr. Moore afterward removed to near Tyler, in Smith County, 
Texas, where a more cultured association soon developed another 
phase of his daughter's life ; and the many modest verses that never 
expected to see the light, but which the poet always retains with affec- 
tion, as bearing with them the history of the spirit's joys in its bud- 
dings, found their way, through admiring friends, to the light they 
would scarcely bear without the photograph of the girlish writer to 
vindicate their unpretending juvenility. 

It was not long (in her fifteenth year) till some of her verses found 
their way into the " Houston Telegraph," then under the editorship 



MOLLIE E. MOORE. 559 

of the acute and scholarly E. H. Cushing, Esq. With the ready 
appreciation of a man of wit and letters, Mr. Cushing encouraged and 
invited the contributions of the young and gifted writer, without know- 
ing how young and uninstructed she was. Further information induced 
Mr. Cushing to invite, and procured a visit to his family of his youth- 
ful contributor. Like the true patron of genius, he sought, by every 
proper aid, to afford it the means of development. He and his noble- 
hearted wife prevailed upon her parents to allow their daughter to 
become a member of their family whenever they could part with her 
society at home, and, in the absence of good schools, (all broken up 
by the events of the war,) avail herself of the use of his personal 
instruction, and his extensive and well-selected library. 

Thus for three years, until after the close of the war, our young 
writer spent a large portion of her time in the city of Houston, in 
association with ladies and gentlemen of cultured intellect, and in the 
reading and study that have developed her taste, and made her the 
true poetess and the elegant and charming woman — a favorite in 
every circle in which she moves. Somewhat subsequent to this period, 
we believe it was, she received the aid in her selections of reading and 
study of the somewhat mystic and profound critic and theologian, 
Kev. J. E. Carnes. 

Miss Moore's pen has never been long idle ; and although but few 
of her productions have seen the light, her literary correspondence 
has widened, and her prose as well as poetic writings have grown 
voluminous for one still so young. 

In 1866, her father removed, with his family, to Galveston, thus 
bringing his daughter's two homes within a few hours of each other, and 
giving her additional advantages of society and the seaside promptings 
to her muse. 

A season of travel through the East and North with Mr. Cushing's 
family and some other friends, the meeting with many writers of note, 
and, above all, that monster to all young authors, the publisher, 
and seeing a volume of her own thoughts collected and published by 
her friend and patron, were the prominent events of the next season. 
Then came that terrible shock — her first great grief — the death of 
her loving and excellent mother, each event, in its turn, giving a new 
tinge to her productions, or hushing her muse to silence in the pres- 
ence of unutterable thoughts and emotions. 

Thus a large family of brothers, the younger ones scarcely beyond 



560 LIVING FEMALE WE ITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

infancy, together with her widowed and stricken father, were thrown 
entirely upon the care and affection of this slender and frail girl of 
books and poetic vocation. Yet, as if with one of her own intuitions, 
she adapted herself to the necessities around her with a maturity and 
earnestness beyond praise. Yet never has her life appeared more 
beautiful, nor her pen gushed with a more full and genuine inspiration, 
than when discharging, with such tender devotion, all these onerous 
cares thus devolving upon her. 

It must not " be inferred, because Miss Moore's very versatile muse 
oft grapples with the grave and the lofty, or weeps in sadness, draped 
in gloom, that her life and manners are usually austere, or her pen 
always clothed in mourning. On the contrary, she illustrates a trait 
not uncommon with poets and persons of exalted fancy. In conversa- 
tion with friends, in society, and in the hospitalities of her own house, 
she wears a cheerfulness and humor that would leave an impression 
of the happy girl taking life and its cares rather lightly. Many of 
her fugitive pieces illustrate this joyous temper, and prove her humor 
to be genuine. The poem which follows contains the scintillations of 
a merry heart : 

STEALING EOSES THKOUGH THE GATE. 

Long ago, do you remember, 

When we sauntered home from school, 
As the silent gloaming settled, 

With its breezes light and cool? 
When we passed a stately mansion, 

And we stopped, remember, Kate, 
How we spent a trembling moment 

Stealing roses through the gate? 

But they hung so very tempting, 

And our eager hands were small, 
And the bars were wide — oh! Kate, 

We trembled; but we took them all! 
And we turned with fearful footsteps, 

For you know 'twas growing late; 
But the flowers, we hugged them closely, 

Hoses stolen through the gate! 

Well, the years have hasted onward, 
And those happy days are flown ; 



MOLLIE E. MOORE. 561 

Golden prime of early childhood, 
Laughing moments spent and gone! 

But yester e'en I passed your cottage, 
And I saw, oh ! careless Kate, 

Handsome Percy bending downward — 
Stealing roses through the gate! 

Stealing roses where the willow 

O'er the street its long bough dipsf 
Stealing roses — yes, I'd swear it — 

Stealing roses from your lips! 
And I heard a dainty murmur, 

Cooing round some blessed fate: 
Don't deny it ! was n't Percy 

Stealing roses through the gate? 

We do not propose writing a critique upon her productions, but 
must make note of a few pieces that show her versatility. We open 
the volume of poems, that casket of jewels, ("Minding the Gap, and 

St" f,°T' } r S6nted t0 the Public hj Cushin S & Cave > HoustoD, 
1867, the first literary production (we believe) ever published in 

Texas; and the very dedication to her friend and patron will indicate 
the originality, the tenderness, and poetic beauty of Miss Moore's 
mental constitution. First in the compilation is "Minding the Gap " 
which is suggested by a custom prevalent in the rural districts of 
Texas, which may not be understood elsewhere. At harvest-time, a 
length of the fence is let down to allow the wagons to pass to and fro 
lo keep cattle out, the children are set "minding the gap" It 
evinces one of her strong peculiarities. Its description is exceed- 
mgly graphic and beautiful, while the style of transition, from the 
simple idea of "minding the gap" in the field-fence, to the heartful 
reflections upon those "open places of the heart," where, in maturer 
lite the spirits foes are ever seeking such wily entrance, is not only 
tender to tears, but may be said to be one of Miss Moore's decided 
individualities. 

MINDING THE GAP. 

There is a radiant beauty on the hills — 

The year before us walks with added bloom; 

But, ah! 'tis but the hectic flush that lights 
The pale consumptive to an early tomb — 



71 



562 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

The dying glory that plays round the day, 

"Where that which made it bright hath passed away. 

A mistiness broods in the air — the swell 
Of east winds, slowly wearing autumn's pale 

With dirge-like sadness, wanders up the dell ; 
And red leaves from the maple branches fall 

With scarce a sound. This strange, mysterious rest ! 

Hath nature bound the Lotus to her breast? 

But hark! a long and mellow cadence wakes 
The echoes from their rocks ! How clear and high, 

Among the rounded hills, its gladness breaks, 
And floats like incense toward the vaulted sky! 

It is the harvest-hymn! a triumph tone; 

It rises like those swelling notes of old 
That welcomed Ceres to her golden throne, 

When through the crowded streets her chariot rolled. 
It is the laborer's chorus! for the reign 
Of plenty hath begun — of golden grain. 

How cheeks are flushed with triumph, as the fields 
Bow to our feet with riches! How the eyes 

Grow full with gladness, as they yield 
Their ready treasures ! How hearts arise 

To join with gladness in the mellow chime — 

" The harvest-time ! the glorious harvest- time ! " 

It is the harvest, and the gathered corn 
Is piled in yellow heaps about the field; 

And homely wagons, from the break of morn 
Until the sun glows like a crimson shield 

In the far west, go staggering homeward-bound, 

And with the dry husks strew the trampled ground. 

It is the harvest; and an hour ago 

I sat with half-closed eyes beside the "spring," 

And listened idly to its dreamy flow ; 

And heard afar the gay and ceaseless ring 

Of song and labor from the harvesters — 

Heard faint and careless, as a sleeper hears. 

My little brother came with bounding step, 
And bent him low beside the shaded stream, 



MOLLIE E. MOORE. 563 

And from the fountain drank with eager lip; 

While I, half rousing from my dream, 
Asked where he'd spent this still September day — 
" Chasing the birds, or on the hills at play ? " 

Backward he tossed his golden head, and threw 

A glance disdainful on my idle hands ; 
And, with a proud light in his eye of blue, 

Answered, as deep his bare feet in the sands 
He thrust, and waved his baby hand in scorn : 
" Ah ! no : down in the cornfield, since the morn, 
I 've been mindin' the gap ! " 

" Minding the gap ! " My former dream was gone ! 

Another in its place : I saw a scene 
As fair as e'er an autumn sun shone on — 

Down by a meadow, large and smooth and green, 
Two little barefoot boys, sturdy and strong 
And fair, here in the corn, the whole day long, 
Lay on the curling grass 
Minding the gap! 

Minding the gap! And as the years swept by 

Like moments, I beheld those boys again; 
And patriot hearts within their breasts beat high, 

And on their brows was set the seal of men ; 
And guns were on their shoulders, and they trod 
Back and forth, with measured tread, upon the sod, 
Near where our army slept, 
Minding the gaps! 

Minding the gaps ! My brothers, while you guard 

The open places where a foe might creep — 
A mortal foe — oh ! mind those other gaps — 

The open places of the heart ! My brothers, keep 
Watch over them! 

The open places of the heart — the gaps 
Made by the restless hands of doubt and care — 

Could we but keep, like holy sentinels, 
Innocence and faith forever guarding there, 

Ah ! how much of shame and woe would flee, 

Affrighted, back from their blest purity ! 



564 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. 

No gloom or sadness from the outer world 

With feet unholy then would enter in, 
To grasp the golden treasures of the soul, 

And bear them forth to sorrow and to sin! 
The heart's proud fields — its harvests full and fair! 
Innocence and love, could we but keep them there, 
Minding the gaps ! 

One turns the leaves of the volume, and finds they would select 
almost each piece they read as sample of Miss Moore's poetic gifts. 

" The Departing Soul," in its dialogue with the body, has a depth 
of thought that would do credit to the maturer minds of the great 
poets. It depends not at all upon its special rhythm, for you read its 
blank verse as if following the thoughts of Bryant or Cowper, without 
seeing the words, only living and wrestling with the searching and 
thrilling conceptions. 

"Reaping the Whirlwind" is powerfully presented. The religious 
lesson is developed in an allegory as original as it is truthful and 
poetic. This spiritual trait, that is usually deemed a great beautifier 
of the female character, runs like a modest silver thread through the 
whole web of her poetic constructions. But the intellectual trait, that 
will at least rank second in the estimation of cultured minds, is the 
reflective. And in this class you might rank nearly every piece she 
writes. The original and independent manner in which our poetess 
weaves the reflective into her verses, even on the tritest themes, is fast 
asserting her claim to fame. She has no mentor, no model, no guide 
but her own perception of the lofty, the true, and the beautiful. She 
wrote before she knew there were models ; and still she writes, with an 
untrammelled independence, the thoughts, the reflections, the fancies, 
just as they flow through the mind of this "our Texas Mocking-bird," 
our own " Mollie Moore." 

The patriotic is a large element in her earlier writings. It found 
ample promptings just as her mind was developing into the open 
world. It glows in many of her longer poems, and often creeps in by 
stealth as she writes upon other themes. The deep impressions made 
by the sufferings of her people, her friends and family, up to the close 
of the war, have tinged her mental character for life. 

Taking Miss Moore's poems all in all, they indicate a wide range 
of excellence, a lofty sweep of thought, a subtle gift in allegory and 
personification, and richness in exquisite fancies. 



FLORENCE D. WEST. 565 

An engraving of Miss Moore is the frontispiece to her volume of 
poems. It is an excellent likeness, having the fault of looking too 
stern, and much too old. " Looking at this engraving, we see a girl 
hardly out of her teens, with a face which evinces refinement and cul- 
ture of the highest order: it is not beautiful, nor would we consider it 
pretty ; but it is a face altogether remarkable — of the kind you love 
to look at, return to again and again ; and having seen it, it is not 
easily forgotten." 

No great poem has yet been given to the public by Miss Moore ; 

but we shall hope, from the promise given in many fugitive and a few 

more lengthy poems, that as years flow on, and her mental character 

ripens in its development, her spirit-fancies may find utterance in 

elaborate works of genius. 

1869. Col. C. G. Forshey. 



FLORENCE D. WEST. 

MRS. WEST, whose maiden name was Duval, was born in Talla- 
hassee, Florida. Her grandfather was Governor of Florida. 
Her father moved to Texas when she was a child, and settled in 
Austin, where she has ever since resided. Her father now holds the 
position of Federal Judge. Mrs. West has written considerable verse, 
and what she has published has been favorably noticed. Poetry has 
been her recreation, and not her study. The following poem originally 
appeared in Gen. Hill's magazine : 

THE MARBLE LILY. 

Shaking the clouds of marble dust away, 

A youthful sculptor wanders forth alone 
While twilight, rosy with the kiss of day, 

Glows like a wondrous flower but newly blown. 
There lives within his deep and mystic eyes, 

The magic light of true and happy love — 
Tranquil his bosom as the undimmed skies 

Smiling so gently from the depths above. 

All Nature whispers sweet and blissful things 
To this young heart, rich with emotions warm : 



566 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

Ah, rarely happy is the song it sings ! 

Ah, strangely tender is its witching charm ! 
He wanders to the margin of a lake 

Whose placid waves lie hushed in sleeping calm — 
So faint the breeze, it may not bid them wake, 

Tho' breathing thro' their dreams its odorous balm. 

A regal lily stands upon the shore, 

Dropping her dew-pearls on the mosses green: 
Her stately forehead, and her bosom pure, 

Veiled in the moonlight's pale and silver sheen. 
The sculptor gazes on the queenly flower 

Until his white cheek burns with crimson flame, 
And his heart owns a sweet and subtile power, 

Breathing like music through his weary frame. 

The magic influence of his mighty art — 

The magic influence of his mighty love — 
Their mingled passion to his life impart, 

And his deep nature each can wildly move. 
These passions sway his inmost being now — 

His art, his love, are all the world to him: 
Before the stately flower behold him bow; 

Speaking the love that makes his dark eyes dim. 

" Thou art the emblem of my bosom's queen ; 

And she, as thou, is formed with perfect grace — 
Stately she moves, with lofty air serene, 

And pure thoughts beaming from her angel face. 
While yet thy bosom holds this silver dew, 

And moonbeams pale with passion for thy sake, 
In fairest marble I'll thy life renew, 

Ere the young daylight bids my love awake." 

A wondrous flower shone upon the dark — 

A lily-bloom of marble, pure and cold — 
Perfected in its beauty as the lark 

Soared to the drifting clouds of ruddy gold. 
The sculptor proudly clasped the image fair 

To his young ardent heart, then swiftly passed 
To where a lovely face, 'mid floating hair, 

A splendor o'er the dewy morning cast. 

She beamed upon him from the casement's height — 
The fairest thing that greeted the new day — 



FLORENCE D. WEST. 567 

He held aloft the lily gleaming white, 

While tender smiles o'er her sweet features play. 

Presenting his fair gift on bended knee — 

"Wilt thou, beloved, cherish this pure flower? 

'T was born of moonlight, and a thought of thee, 
And well will grace this cool and verdant bower. 

"And when these blushing blossoms droop and pine, 

Chilled by the cruel north wind's icy breath, 
Unwithered still these marble leaves will shine 

Calm and serene, untouched by awful death." 
The summer days flew by like bright-winged dreams, 

Filling those hearts with fancies fond and sweet; 
But when the first frost cooled the sun's warm beam, 

The purest, gentlest one had ceased to beat. 

How like she seemed — clad in her churchyard dress — 

To that cold flower he chiselled for her sake ! 
What wild despairing kisses did he press 

On those sealed eyes that never more will wake! 
His clinging arms enfold her once again, 

In one long, hopeless, passionate embrace — 
Then that fair child, who knew no earthly guile, 

Hid 'neath the flowers her sad and wistful face. 

The world that once was fairy-land to him, 

Now seemed a dreary waste — of verdure bare — 
He only walked abroad in moonlight dim, 

And shunned the gaudy sun's unwelcome glare. 
Each night he sits beside a small green mound 

O'er which a marble lily lifts its head 
With trembling dews and pearly moonbeams crowned, 

Fit emblem of the calm and sinless dead. 

He never tires of this sad trysting-place, 

But waits and listens through the quiet night — 
"Surely she comes from mystic realms of space, 

To bid my darkened spirit seek the light. 
Be patient, my wild heart ! yon glowing star 

Wears the fond look of her soft, pleading eyes ; 
Gently she draws me to that world afar, 

And bids me hush these sad and longing sighs. 

Thus mused he, as the solemn nights passed by, 
Still folding that sweet hope within his soul, 



568 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. 

And always peering in the tender sky 

With earnest longings for that distant goal. 

One radiant night, when summer ruled the land, ^ ^^L 
He sought the darling's bed of dreamless rest — 

The wooing breeze his pale cheek softly fanned 
With balmy sighs from gardens of the blest. 

A witching spell o'er that fair scene was cast, 

Thrilling his sad heart with a wild delight; 
And steeped in visions of the blessed past, 

He gazed upon the lily, gleaming white. 
Jewels of diamond-dew glowed on its breast, 

And the rich moonlight, mellow and intense, 
In golden robes the quiet churchyard dressed, 

Pouring its glory through the shadows dense. 

A nightingale flew from a neighboring tree, 

And on the marble lily folds his wings — 
His full heart trembles with its melody — 

Of love and heaven he passionately sings. 
The sculptor, gazing through his happy tears, 

Feels his whole being thrilled with sudden bliss — 
An angel voice in accents soft he hears, 

And trembles on his lips a tender kiss. 

His hope has bloomed ! above the marble flower, 

Eadiant with heavenly beauty, see her stand! 
His heart makes music like a silver shower, 

As fondly beckons that soft snowy hand. 
The golden moon paints in the crimson sky, 

And morning's blushes burn o'er land and sea, 
Staining a cold, cold cheek with rosy dye : 

The sculptor's weary, waiting soul is free ! 

Onward glide the years through bloom and blight; 

Unchanged, the marble lily lifts its head : 
Through summer's glow, through winter's snow, so white. 

Unheeding sleep the calm and blessed dead. 
Wherever falls the pure and pearly dew, 

Wherever blooms the fresh and fragrant rose, 
In that far world removed from mortal view 

Two loving souls in perfect bliss repose. 

THE END. 



c 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




